wmm: 


POEMS 


POEMS 


ALFRED    TENNYSON, 

POET     LAUREATE. 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES. 


VOL.  L 


A    NEW    EDITION. 


BOSTON: 
TICK  NOR    AND     FIELDS, 

MDCCCLXII. 


It  is  my  wish  that  with  Messrs.  Ticknoe  And  Fields 
alone  the  right  of  publishing  my  books  in  America  should 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


ISliis  Edition  contains  "In  Memoriam  "  and  "Maud,"  with 
all  the  additional  Poems 


CONTENTS 

OF 

VOLUME    THE    FIRST. 


Page 
GIARIBEL      .....     o .3 

LILIAN d 

ISABEL 7 

MARIANA        10 

TO  15 

MADELINE 17 

SONG. THE    OWL 20 

SECOND    SON&. TO    THE    SAME 21 

RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS 22 

ODE    TO    MEMORY 30 

SUNG 36 

ADELINE 38 

A  CHARACTER 42 


VI  CONTENTS. 

THE    FOET        4i 

THE   poet's   mind 48 

THE    DTINS    SWAN 50 

A    DIRGE 53 

LOVE    AND    DEATH 56 

THE    BALLAD    OF    ORIANA 57 

CIRCUMSTANCE         .     .     • 62 

THE    MERMAN 63 

THE    MERMAID 65 

SONNET    TO    J.  M.  K 68 

THE    LADY    OF    SHALOTT 72 

MARIANA    IN    THE    SOUTH 80 

ELEANORE        85 

THE    miller's    DAUGHTER 92 

FATIMA 103 

CENONE 106 

THE    SISTERS 119 

TO  122 

THE  PALACE  OF  ART 123 

LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERB 139 

THE  MAT  queen: , 143 

NEW  tear's  ETE 147 

CONCLUSION 152 


CONTENTS.  VU 

Page 
THE   L0T0S-KATEI13 158 

A  DREAM   OF   FAIR  WOMEN 167 

MARGARET 186 

THE    BLACKBIRD 190 

THE   DEATH   OF   THE   OLD   TEAR 192 

TO  J.   S 195 

"  YOU   ASK   ME  WHY,  THOUGH   ILL  AT  EASE  " 200 

"OF   OLD   SAT   FREEDOM   ON   THE   HEIGHTS" 202 

"  LOVE   THOU   THY   LAND  WITH  LOVE   FAR-BROUGHT  "    .    .    .    .  204 

THE   GOOSE 209 

THE   EPIC 213 

MORTE  D'ARTHUR 215 

THE   gardener's   DAUGHTER 228 

DORA 240 

AUDLEY   COURT  247 

WALKING   TO   THE   MAIL 251 

ST.    SIMEON    STYLITES 256 

THE   SEA-FAIRIES 265 

THE  DESERTED    HOUSE 267 

EDWIN   MORRIS;   OR,  THE   LAKE 269 

TO ,  AFTER   READING   A   LIFE   AND   LETTERS 276 

TO    E.  L.,    ON   HIS   TRAVELS    IN    GREECE 278 

"  COME   NOT  WHEN   I  AM   DEAD  " 280 

THE    EAGLE  ;   A   FRAGMENT 280 

IN   MEMORIAJI 281 


TO    THE    QUEEN. 


Revered,  beloved,  —  0  you  that  hold 

A  nobler  ofiBce  upon  earth 

Than  arms,  or  power  of  brain,  or  birth, 
Could  give  the  warrior  kings  of  old, 

Victoria,  —  since  your  Royal  grace 
To  one  of  less  desert  allows 
This  laurel  greener  ft'ora  the  brows 

Of  him  that  uttered  nothing  base  ; 

And  should  your  greatness,  and  the  care 
That  yokes  with  empire,  yield  you  time 
To  make  demand  of  modern  rhyme. 

If  aught  of  ancient  worth  be  there  ; 

Then  —  while  a  sweeter  music  wakes, 

And  through  wild  March  the  throstle  calls, 
Where,  all  about  your  palace-walls. 

The  sun-lit  almond-blossom  shakes  — 


;  TO    THE    QUEEN. 

Take,  Madam,  this  poor  book  of  song  ; 
For,  though  the  faults  were  thick  as  dust 
In  vacant  chambers,  I  could  trust 

Tour  kindness.     May  you  rule  us  long. 

And  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 

As  noble  till  the  latest  day  ! 

May  children  of  our  children  say, 
"  She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good  ; 

"  Her  court  was  pure  ;  her  life  serene  ; 

God  gave  her  peace  ;  her  land  reposed  ; 

A  thousand  claims  to  reverence  closed 
In  her  as  Mother,  Wife  and  Queen  ; 

"  And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 
Who  knew  the  seasons,  when  to  take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 

The  bounds  of  freedom  wider  yet, 

By  shaping  some  august  decree. 

Which  kept  her  throne  unshaken  stiU, 
Broad-based  upon  her  people's  will. 

And  compassed  by  the  inviolate  sea." 

March,  1851. 


POEMS. 


CLARIBEL. 


A   MELODY. 


Where  Claribel  low-lieth 
The  breezes  pause  and  die, 
Letting  the  rose-leaves  fall : 
But  the  solemn  oak-tree  sigheth, 
Thick-leaved,  ambrosial, 
With  an  ancient  melody 
Of  an  inward  agony, 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 

At  eve  the  beetle  boometh 
Athwart  the  thicket  lone  : 

At  noon  the  wild  bee  hummeth 
About  the  mossed  headstone : 


CLAHIBEL. 

At  midnight  the  moon  cometh 

And  looketh  down  alone. 
Her  song  the  lintwhite  swelleth, 
The  clear-voiced  mavis  dwelleth, 
The  fledgling  throstle  lispeth, 
The  slumbrous  wave  outwelleth, 
The  babbling  runnel  crispeth, 
The  hollow  grot  replieth 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


LILIAN 


Airy,  fairy  Lilian, 

Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 
When  I  ask  her  if  she  love  me, 
Claps  her  tiny  hands  above  me, 

Laughing  all  she  can ; 
She  '11  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me, 

Cruel  little  Lilian. 

When  my  passion  seeks 

Pleasance  in  love-sighs, 
She,  looking  through  and  through  me 
Thoroughly  to  undo  me. 

Smiling,  never  speaks : 
So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple, 
From  beneath  her  gathered  wimple 


Glancing  with  black-beaded  eyes, 
Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 
The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks ; 
Then  away  she  flies. 

Prithee  weep,  May  Lilian ! 
Gayety  without  eclipse 

Wearieth  me.  May  Lilian : 
Through  my  very  heart  it  thrilleth 

When  from  crimson-threadec^  lips 
Silver-treble  laughter  trilleth : 

Prithee  weep,  May  Lilian. 

Praying  all  I  can, 
If  prayers  will  not  hush  thee. 

Airy  Lilian, 
Like  a  rose-leaf  I  will  crush  thee, 

Fairy  Lilian. 


ISABEL. 


Ei(ES  not  down-dropt  nor  over-bright,  but  fed 
With  the  clear-pointed  flame  of  chastity, 
Clear  without  heat,  undying,  tended  by 

Pure  vestal  thoughts  in  the  translucent  fane 
Of  her  still  spirit ;  locks  not  wide  dispread, 
Madonna-wise  on  either  side  her  head ; 
Sweet  lips  whereon  perpetually  did  reign 
The  summer  calm  of  golden  charity, 
Were  fixed  shadows  of  thy  fixed  mood. 

Revered  Isabel,  the  crown  and  head. 
The  stately  flower  of  female  fortitude, 

Of  perfect  wifehood  and  pure  lowlihead. 

The  intuitive  decision  of  a  bright 
And  thorough-edged  intellect  to  part 


Error  from  crime ;  a  prudence  to  withhold ; 

The  laws  of  marriage  charactered  in  gold 
Upon  the  blanched  tablets  of  her  heart ; 
A  love  still  burning  upward,  giving  light 
To  read  those  laws ;  an  accent  very  low 
In  blandishment,  but  a  most  silver  flow 

Of  subtle-paced  counsel  in  distress, 
Right  to  the  heart  and  brain,  though  undescried, 

Winning  its  way  with  extreme  gentleness 
Through  all  the  outworks  of  suspicious  pride ; 
A  courage  to  endure  and  to  obey ; 
A  hate  of  gossip  parlance,  and  of  sway, 
Crowned  Isabel,  through  all  her  placid  life, 
The  queen  of  marriage,  a  most  perfect  wife. 


The  mellowed  reflex  of  a  winter  moon ; 
A  clear  stream  flowing  with  a  muddy  one. 
Till  in  its  onward  current  it  absorbs 

With  swifter  movement  and  in  purer  light 
The  vexed  eddies  of  its  wayward  brother : 
A  leaning  and  upbearing  parasite. 
Clothing  the  stem,  which  else  had  fallen  quite, 
With  clustered  flower-bells  and  ambrosial  orbs 


Of  rich  fruit-bunches  leaning  on  each  other  — 
Shadow  forth  thee : —  the  world  hath  not  another 

(Though  all  her  fairest  forms  are  types  of  thee, 

And  thou  of  God  in  thy  great  charity) 

Of  such  a  finished  chastened  punty. 


MARIANA. 

"  Mariana  in  the  moated  grange."  —  Measure  for  Measure. 


With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 
Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all : 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  peach  to  the  garden-wall. 
The  broken  sheds  looked  sad  and  strange ; 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch ; 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary. 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead !  " 


MARUNA.  11 


Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even ; 

Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried; 
She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven, 

Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 
After  the  flitting  of  the  bats, 

"Wlien  thickest  dark  did  trance  the  sky, 
She  drew  her  casement-curtain  by, 
And  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  flats. 
She  only  said,  "  The  night  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 


III. 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night. 

Waking  she  heard  the  night-fowl  crow : 
The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light : 

From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low- 
Came  to  her :  without  hope  of  change, 

In  sleep  she  seemed  to  walk  forlorn. 

Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed  morn 
About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 


12 


She  only  said,  "  The  day  is  dreary 
He  Cometh  not,"  she  said ; 

She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

rv. 

About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall 

A  sluice  with  blackened  waters  slept, 
And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small. 

The  clustered  marish-mosses  crept. 
Hard  by  a  poplar  shook  ahvay, 

All  silver-green  with  gnarled  bark : 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  gray. 
She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
1  would  that  I  were  dead  '  " 


V. 

A  nd  ever  when  the  moon  was  low, 

And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and  away, 

In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro, 
She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 


MARIAN. 

But  when  the  moon  was  very  low, 

And  wild  winds  bound  within  their  cell, 
The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

She  only  said,  "  The  night  is  drearj^ 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead ! " 


VI. 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house 

The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creaked ; 
The  blue  fly  sung  i'  the  pane ;  the  mouse 

Behind  the  mouldering  wainscot  shrieked, 
Or  from  the  crevice  peered  about. 

Old  faces  glimmered  through  the  doors, 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors, 
Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 
She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "  1  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  I  " 


13 


14 


vn. 

The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof, 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar,  made,  did  all  confound 

Her  sense ;  but  most  she  loathed  the  hour 

When  the  thick-moted  sunbeam  lay 

Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 

Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 

Then,  said  she,  "  I  am  very  dreary, 

He  will  not  come,"  she  said ; 

She  wept,  "  I  am  awearj"^,  aweary, 

O  God !  that  I  were  dead !  " 


TO 


Clear-headed  friend,  whose  joyful  scom, 
Edged  with  sharp  laughter,  cuts  atwain 
The  knots  that  tangle  human  creeds, 
The  wounding  cords  that  bind  and  strain 
The  heart  until  it  bleeds, 
Ray-fringed  eyelids  of  the  morn 

Roof  not  a  glance  so  keen  as  thine : 
If  aught  of  prophecy  be  mine, 
Thou  wilt  not  live  in  vain. 

Low-cowering  shall  the  Sophist  sit ; 
Falsehood  shall  bare  her  plaited  brow : 
Fair-fronted  Truth  shall  droop  not  now 

With  shrilling  shafts  of  subtle  wit. 

Nor  martyr-flames  nor  trenchant  swords 
Can  do  away  that  ancient  lie : 
A  gentler  death  shall  Falsehood  die. 

Shot  throuofh  and  through  with  cunning  words 


16 


Weak  Truth,  a-leaning  on  her  crutch, 
Wan,  wasted  Truth,  in  her  utmost  need. 
Thy  kingly  intellect  shall  feed, 
Until  she  be  an  athlete  bold, 

And  weary  with  a  finger's  touch 

Those  writhed  limbs  of  lightning  speed  ; 
Like  that  strange  angel  which  of  old, 
Until  the  breaking  of  the  light, 

Wrestled  with  wandering  Israel, 

Past  Yabbok  brook  the  lingering  night, 

And  heaven's  mazed  signs  stood  still 

In  the  dim  tract  of  Penuel. 


MADELINE. 


Thou  art  not  steeped  in  golden  languors, 
No  tranced  summer  calm  is  thine, 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Through  light  and  shadow  thou  dost  rangej 
Sudden  glances,  sweet  and  strange, 

Delicious  spites,  and  darling  angers. 
And  airy  fonns  of  flitting  change. 

Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 
Thou  are  perfect  in  love-lore. 
Revealings  deep  and  clear  are  thine 
Of  wealthy  smiles :  but  who  may  know 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  fleeter  ? 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  sweeter, 
Who  may  know  ? 


18  MADELINE. 

Frowiis  perfect-sweet  along  the  brow 

Light-glooming  over  eyes  divine, 

Like  little  clouds  sun-fringed,  are  thine, 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thy  smile  and  frouii  are  not  aloof 
From  one  another, 
Each  to  each  is  dearest  brother ; 
Hues  of  the  silken  sheeny  woof 
Momently  shot  into  each  other. 
All  the  mystery  is  thine ; 
Smiling,  fro^\^^ing,  evermore, 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 


A  subtle,  sudden  flame. 
By  veering  passion  fanned. 

About  thee  breaks  and  dances ; 
When  I  would  kiss  thy  hand, 
The  flush  of  angered  shame 

O'erflows  thy  calmer  glances, 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown : 
But  when  I  turn  away, 
Thou,  willing  me  to  stay, 


MADELINE.  19 


Wooest  not,  nor  vainly  wranglest , 
But,  looking  fixedly  the  while, 

All  my  bounding  heart  entanglest 
In  a  golden-netted  smile ; 
Then  in  madness  and  in  bliss, 
If  my  lips  should  dare  to  kiss 
Thy  taper  fingers  amorously, 
Again  thou  blushest  angerly; 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown. 


SOI^G.  — THE    OWL. 


When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come, 

And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 
And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb, 
And  the  whirring-  sail  goes  round, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round  ; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch, 

And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown  liay, 

And  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the  thatch 

Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay. 

Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay ; 

Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 

The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


SECOND    SONG, 


TO     THE    SAME. 


Thy  tiiwhits  are  lulled,  I  wot, 
Thy  tuwhoos  of  yesternight, 
Which  upon  the  dark  afloat, 
So. took  echo  with  delight, 
So  took  echo  with  delight. 

That  her  voice,  untuneful  gro^^m 
Wears  all  day  a  fainter  tone. 

I  would  mock  thy  chaunt  anew  ; 

But  I  cannot  mimic  it ; 
Not  a  whit  of  thy  tuwhoo. 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 

With  a  lengthened  loud  halloo, 
Tuwhoo.  tuwhit,  tuwhit,  tuwhoo-o-o. 


RECOLLECTIONS 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS. 


When  the  breeze  of  a  joyful  da^^Ti  blew  free 

In  the  silken  sail  of  infancy, 

The  tide  of  time  flowed  back  with  me, 

The  forward-flowing  tide  of  time  ; 
And  many  a  sheeny  summer-mom, 
AdoAvn  the  Tigris  I  was  borne, 
By  Bagdat's  shrines  of  fretted  gold. 
High-walled  gardens  green  and  old  ; 
True  Mussulman  was  I  and  sworn, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS.  23 

n. 

Anight  my  shallop,  rustling  through 
The  low  and  bloomed  foliage,  drove 
The  fragrant,  glistening  deeps,  and  clove 
The  citron-shadows  in  the  blue  : 
By  garden  porches  on  the  brim, 
The  costly  doors  flung  open  wide, 
Gold  glittering  through  lamplight  dim, 
And  broidered  sofas  on  each  side  : 

In  sooth  it  was  a  goodly  time. 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

III. 

Often,  where  clear-stemmed  platans  guard 

The  outlet,  did  I  turn  away 

The  boat-head  do^^'^l  a  broad  canal 

From  the  main  river  sluiced,  where  all 

The  sloping  of  the  moon-lit  sward 

Was  damask-work,  and  deep  inlay 

Of  braided  blooms  unmown,  which  crept 

Adown  to  where  the  waters  slept. 

A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  sfood  Haroun  Alraschid. 


24  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

IV. 

A  motion  from  the  river  won 
Ridged  the  smooth  level,  bearing  on 
My  shallop  through  the  star-strown  calm, 
Until  another  night  in  night 
I  entered,  from  the  clearer  light, 
Imbowered  vaults  of  pillared  palm. 
Imprisoning  sweets,  which,  as  they  clomb 
Heavenward,  were  stayed  beneath  the  ilome 
Of  hollow  boughs.  —  A  goodly  time. 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


Still  onward ;  and  the  clear  canal 
Is  rounded  to  as  clear  a  lake. 
From  the  green  rivage  many  a  fall 
Of  diamond  rillets  musical. 
Through  little  crystal  arches  low 
Down  from  the  central  fountain's  flow 
Fallen  silver-chiming,  seemed  to  shake 
The  sparkling  flints  beneath  the  prow. 
A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  m  the  golden  prime 
Of  jrood  Haroun  Alraschid. 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS.  25 


VI. 


Above  through  many  a  bowery  turn 
A  walk  with  vary-colored  shells 
Wandered  engrained.     On  either  side 
All  round  about  the  fragrant  marge 
From  fluted  vase,  and  brazen  urn, 
In  order,  eastern  flowers  large 
Some  dropping  low  their  crimson  bells 
Half-closed,  and  others  studded  wide 
With  disks  and  tiars,  fed  the  time 
With  odor  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

VII. 

Far  off",  and  where  the  lemon-grove 
In  closest  coverture  upsprung. 
The  living  airs  of  middle  night 
Died  round  the  bulbul  as  he  sung 
Not  he  :  but  something  which  possessed 
The  darkness  of  the  world,  delight. 
Life,  anguish,  death,  immortal  love, 
Ceasing  not,  mingled,  unrepressed, 
Apart  from  place,  withholding  time, 
But  flattering  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

VOL.  I.  3 


*26  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 


Black  the  garden-bowers  and  grots 
Sliunbered:  the  solemn  palms  were  ranged 
Above,  unwooed  of  summer  wind  : 
A  sudden  splendor  from  behind 
Flushed  all  the  leaves  with  rich  gold-gre>^n 
And,  flowing  rapidly  between 
Their  interspaces,  counterchanged 
The  level  lake  with  diamond-plots 
Of  dark  and  bright.     A  lovely  tm^e, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


Dark-blue  the  deep  sphere  overhead, 
Distinct  with  vivid  stars  inlaid, 
Grew  darker  from  that  under-flame  : 
So.  leaping  lightly  from  the  boat, 
With  silver  anchor  left  afloat. 
In  mai^vel  whence  that  glory  came 
Upon  me,  as  in  sleep  I  sank 
In  cool  soft  turf  upon  the  bank. 

Entranced  with  that  place  and  time. 

So  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS.  27 

X. 

Thence  through  the  garden  I  was  drawn  - 
A  realm  of  pleasance,  many  a  mound, 
And  many  a  shadow-chequered  laAvn 
Full  of  the  city's  stilly  sound, 
And  deep  myrrh-thickets  blowing  round 
The  stately  cedar,  tamarisks, 
Thick  rosaries  of  scented  thorn. 
Tall  orient  shrubs,  and  obelisks 

Graven  with  emblems  of  the  time, 

In  honor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  srood  Haroun  Alraschid. 


With  dazed  vision  unawares 
From  the  long  alley's  lattice  shade 
Emerged,  I  came  upon  the  great 
Pavilion  of  the  Caliphat. 
Right  to  the  carven  cedarn  doors, 
Flung  inward  over  spangled  floors, 
Broad-based  flights  of  marble  stairs 
Ran  up  with  golden  balustrade, 
After  the  fashion  of  the  time. 
And  humor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


28  EECOLLECTIONS    OF 

xn. 

The  fourscore  windows  all  alij^ht 
As  with  the  quintessence  of  flame, 
A  million  tapers  flaring  bright 
From  twisted  silvers  looked  to  shame 
The  hollow-vaulted  dark,  and  streamed 
Upon  the  mooned  domes  aloof 
In  inmost  Bagdat,  till  there  seemed 
Hundreds  of  crescents  on  the  roof 

Of  night  new  risen,  that  marvellc  is  time. 
To  celebrate  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

XIII. 

Then  stole  I  up,  and  trancedly 
Gazed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone, 
Serene  with  argent-lidded  eyes, 
Amorous,  and  lashes  like  to  rays 
Of  darkness,  and  a  brow  of  pearl 
Tressed  with  redolent  ebony, 
In  many  a  dark  delicious  curl. 
Flowing  beneath  her  rose-hued  zone  ' 
The  sweetest  lady  of  the  time, 
Well  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid.  , 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS.  29 

XIV. 

Six  columns,  three  on  either  side, 
Pure  silver,  underpropt  a  rich 
Throne  of  the  massive  ore,  from  which 
Down-drooped,  in  many  a  floating  fold, 
Engarlanded  and  diapered 
With  inwrought  flowers,  a  cloth  of  gold. 
Thereon,  his  deep  eye  laughter-stirred 
With  merriment  of  kingly  pride. 

Sole  star  of  all  that  place  and  time, 

I  saw  him  —  in  his  golden  prime, 
The  good  Haroun  Albasciiid  ! 


ODE    TO    MEMORY. 


Thou  who  stealest  fire, 
From  the  fountains  of  the  past, 
To  glorify  the  present ;  oh,  haste, 

Visit  my  low  desire  ! 
Strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 
I  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 

n. 

Come  not  as  thou  camest  of  late, 
Flinging  the  gloom  of  yesternight 
On  the  white  day ;  but  robed  in  softened  light 

Of  orient  state. 
Whilome  thou  camest  with  the  morning  mist, 

Even  as  a  maid,  whose  stately  brow 
The  dew-impearled  winds  of  dawn  have  kissed, 
When  she,  as  thou, 


ODE    TO    MEMORY.  31 

Stays  on  her  floating  locks  the  lovely  freight 
Of  overflowing  blooms,  and  earliest  shoots 
Of  orient  green,  giving  safe  pledge  of  fruits, 
Which  in  wintertide  shall  star 
The  black  earth  with  brilliance  rare. 


Whilome  thou  earnest  with  the  morning  nnst, 

And  with  the  evening  cloud, 
Showering  thy  gleaned  wealth  into  my  open-  breast, 
(Those  peerless  flowers  which  in  the  rudest  wind 

Never  grow  sere. 
When  rooted  in  the  garden  of  the  mind, 

Because  they  are  the  earliest  of  the  year.) 
Nor  was  the  night  thy  shroud. 
In  sweet  dreams  softer  than  unbroken  rest 
Thou  leddest  by  the  hand  thine  infant  Hope. 
The  eddying  of  her  garments  caught  from  thee 
The  light  of  thy  great  presence ;  and  the  cope 

Of  the  half-attained  futurity, 

Though  deep,  not  fathomless. 
Was  cloven  with  the  million  stars  that  tremble 
O'er  the  deep  mind  of  dauntless  hifancy. 
Small  thought  was  there  of  life's  distress; 


32  ODK    TO    MEMORY. 

For  sure  she  deemed  no  mist  of  earth  could  dull 
Those  spirit-thrilling  eyes  so  keen  and  beautiful  .• 
Sure  she  was  nigher  to  heaven's  spheres, 
Listening  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
The  illimitable  years. 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 

rv. 

Come  forth,  I  charge  thee,  arise, 
Thou  of  the  many  tongues,  the  myriad  eyes  ! 
Thou  comest  not  with  shows  of  flaunting  vines 
Unto  mine  inner  eye, 
Divinest  memory ! 

Tliou  wert  not  nursed  by  the  waterfall 
Which  ever  sounds  and  shines 

A  pillar  of  white  light  upon  the  wall 
Of  purple  cliffs,  aloof  descried : 
Come  from  the  woods  that  belt  the  gray  hill-sidi', 
The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four. 
That  stand  beside  my  father's  door. 
And  chiefly  from  the  brook  that  loves 
To  purl  o'er  matted,  cress  and  ribbed  sand. 


ODE    TO    MEMORY.  33 

Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rushy  coves, 
Drawnng  into  his  nan'ow  earthen  um, 

In  every  elbow  and  turn, 
The  filtered  tribute  of  the  rough  woodland. 

0  !  hither  lead  thy  feet ! 
Pour  round  mine  ears  the  livelong  bleat 
Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wattled  folds, 

Upon  the  ridged  wolds, 
When  the  first  matin-song  hath  wakened  loud 
Over  the  dark  dewy  earth  forlorn, 
What  time  the  amber  morn 
Forth  gushes  from  beneath  a  low-hung  cloud. 

V. 

Large  dowries  doth  the  raptured  eye 
To  the  young  spirit  present 
When  first  she  is  wed ; 

And  like  a  bride  of  old 
In  triumph  led. 

With  music  and  sweet  showers 
Of  festal  flowers. 
Unto  the  dwelling  she  must  sway. 
Well  hast  thou  done,  great  artist  Memory, 
In  setting  round  thy  first  experiment 


34  ODE    TO    MEMORY. 

With  royal  frame-work  of  wrought  gold  ; 
Needs  must  thou  dearly  love  thy  first  essay, 
And  foremost  in  thy  various  gallery 

Place  it,  where  sweetest  sunlight  falls 

Upon  the  storied  walls ; 
For  the  discovery 
And  newness  of  thine  art  so  pleased  thee, 
That  all  which  thou  hast  drauTi  of  fairest 

Or  boldest  since,  but  liglitly  weighs 
With  thee  unto  the  love  thou  bearest 
The  first-bom  of  thy  genius.     Artist-like, 
Ever  retiring  thou  dost  gaze 
On  the  prime  labor  of  thine  early  days : 
No  matter  what  the  sketch  might  be ; 
Whether  the  high  field  on  the  bushles.s  Tike, 
Or  even  a  sand-built '  Ige 
Of  heaped  hills  that  mound  the  sea. 
Overblown  with  murmurs  harsh, 
Or  even  a  lowly  cottage  whence  we  see 
Stretched  wide  and  wild  the  waste  enormous  marsh, 
Where  from  the  frequent  bridge, 
Like  emblems  of  infinity, 
The  trenched  waters  run  from  sky  to  sky; 
Or  a  garden  bowered  close 
With  plaited  alleys  of  the  trailing  rose, 


ODE    TO    MEMORY. 

Loiig  allej's  falling  down  to  twilight  grots, 

Or  opening  upon  level  plots 

Of  crowned  lilies,  standing  near 

Purple-spiked  lavender : 

Whether  in  after  liie  retired 

From  brawling  stoniis, 

From  weary  wind, 

With  youthful  fancy  reinspired, 

We  may  hold  converse  with  all  forms 

Of  the  many-sided  mind, 

And  those  whom  passion  had  not  blinded, 

Subtle-thoughted,  myriad-minded, 

My  friend,  with  you  to  live  alone, 

Methinks  were  better  than' to  own 

A  crown,  a  sceptre,  and  a  throne. 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


35 


SONG. 


A  SPIRIT  haunts  the  year's  last  hours, 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing  bowers  : 

To  himself  he  talks ; 
For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly, 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and  sigh 

In  the  walks ; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy  stalks 
Of  the  mouldering  flowers : 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chiJly; 

Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 

n. 

The  air  is  damp,  and  hushed,  and  close, 
As  a  sick  man's  room  when  he  taketh  reposf 
An  hour  before  death ; 


SONG.  31 

My  ^ery  heart  faints  and  my  whole  soul  grieves 
At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting  leaves, 
And  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box  beneath, 
And  the  year's  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly  • 
,  Heavily  hang^  the  hollyhock. 

Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


ADELI^'E. 


Mystery  of  mysteries, 
Faintly  smiling  Adeline, 
Scarce  of  earth  nor  all  divine, 
Nor  unhappy,  nor  at  rest, 
But  beyond  expression  fair, 
With  thy  floating  flaxen  hair; 
Thy  rose-lips  and  full  blue  eyes 

Take  the  heart  from  out  my  breast. 
Wherefore  those  dim  looks  of  thine, 
Sliadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  ? 

Whence  that  aery  bloom  of  thine. 

Like  a  lily  which  the  sun 
Looks  through  in  his  sad  decline, 

And  s.  rose-bush  leans  upon, 


30 


Thou  that  faintly  smilest  still, 

As  a  Naiad  in  a  well, 

Looking  at  the  set  of  day. 
Or  a  phantom  two  hours  old 

Of  a  maiden  past  away. 
Ere  the  placid  lips  be  cold? 
Wherefore  those  faint  smiles  of  thine, 

Spiritual  Adeline  ? 

What  hope  or  fear  or  joy  is  thine  ? 
Who  talketh  with  thee,  Adeline  ? 
For  sure  thou  art  not  all  alone  : 

Do  beating  hearts  of  salient  springs 
Keep  measure  with  thine  own  ? 

Hast  thou  heard  the  butterflies 
What  they  say  betwixt  their  wiiii^s  ? 
Or  in  stillest  evenings 
With  what  voice  the  violet  woos 
To  his  heart  the  silver  dews  ? 
Or  when  little  airs  arise, 
How  the  merry  bluebell  rings 
To  the  mosses  underneath  ? 
Hast  thou  looked  upon  the  breath 
Of  the  lilies  at  sunrise  ? 


10 


WTierefore  that  faint  smile  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  ? 

Some  honey-converse  feeds  thj  mind, 
Some  spirit  of  a  crimson  rose 
In  love  with  thee  forgets  to  close 
His  curtains,  wasting  odorous  sighs 
All  night  long  on  darkness  blind. 
What  aileth  thee  ?  whom  waitest  thuu 
With  thy  softened,  shadowed  brow, 
And  those  dew-lit  eyes  of  thine, 
Thou  faint  smiler,  Adeline  ? 

Lovest  thou  the  doleful  wind 

When  thou  gazest  at  the  skies  ? 
Doth  the  low-tongued  Orient 

Wander  from  the  side  o'  the  mom, 
Dripping  with  Sabsean  spice 
On  thy  pillow,  lowly  bent 

With  melodious  airs  lovelorn. 

Breathing  light  against  thy  face, 
Wliile  his  locks  a-dropping  twinod 
Round  thy  neck  in  subtle  :ing 
Make  a  carcanet  of  rays 


And  ye  talk  together  still, 
In  the  language  wherewith  Spring 
Letters  cowslips  on  the  hill  ? 
Hence  that  look  and  smile  of  thine. 
Spiritual  Adeline. 


41 


A    CHARACTER 


With  a  half-glance  upon  the  sky 
At  night  he  said,  "  The  wanderings 
Of  this  most  intricate  Universe 
Teach  me  the  nothingness  of  things." 
Yet  could  not  all  creation  pierce 
Beyond  the  bottom  of  his  eye. 

II. 

He  spake  of  beauty  :  that  the  dull 

Saw  no  divinity  in  grass, 

Life  in  dead  stones,  or  spirit  in  air ; 

Then  looking  as  't  were  in  a  glass, 

He  smootl'.ed  his  chin  and  sleeked  his  hair. 

And  said  the  earth  was  beautiful. 


A    CHARACTER.  43 


in. 


He  spake  of  virtue  :  not  the  gods 
More  purely,  when  they  wish  to  charm 
Pallas  and  Juno  sitting  by  : 
And  with  a  sweeping  of  the  arm, 
And  a  lack-lustre  dead-blue  eye, 
Devolved  his  rounded  periods. 

■^  IV. 

Most  delicately  hour  by  hour 
He  canvassed  human  mysteries. 
And  trod  on  silk,  as  if  the  winds 
Blew  his  o\vn  praises  in  his  eyes, 
And  stood  aloof  from  other  minds 
In  impotence  of  fancied  power. 

V. 

With  lips  depressed  as  he  were  meek, 
Himself  unto  himself  he  sold  : 
Upon  himself  himself  did  feed: 
Quiet,  dispassionate,  and  cold. 
And  other  than  his  form  of  creed. 
With  chiselled  features  clear  and  sleek. 


THE  POET. 


The  poet  m  a  golden  clime  was  born, 

With  golden  stars  above  ; 
Dowered  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 
The  love  of  love. 

He  saw  through  life  and  death,  through  good  and  ill 

He  saw  through  his  OAvn  soul. 
The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will, 
An  open  scroll, 

Before  him  lay :  with  echoing  feet  he  threaded 

The  secret'st  walks  of  fame  : 
The  viewless  arrows  of  his  thoughts  were  headed 
And  winged  with  flame, 


4S 


THE    FOET. 

Like  Indian  reeds  blown  from  his  silver  tongtie, 

And  of  so  fierce  a  flight, 
From  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung, 

Filling  with  light 

And  vagrant  melodies  the  winds  which  bore 

Them  earthward  till  they  lit ; 
Then,  like  the  arrow-seeds  of  the  field-flower, 

The  fruitful  wit, 

Cleaving,  took  root,  and  springing  forth  anew 

Where'er  they  fell,  behold, 
Like  to  the  mother  plant  in  semblance,  grew 

A  flower  all  gold, 

And  bravely  furnished  all  abroad  to  fling 

The  winged  shafts  of  truth, 
To  throng  with  stately  blooms  the  breathing  spring 

Of  Hope  and  Youth. 

So  many  minds  did  gird  their  orbs  with  beams, 

Though  one  did  fling  the  fire. 
Heaven  flowed  upon  the  soul  in  many  dreams 

Of  high  desire. 


46  THE    POET. 

Thus  truth  was  multiplied  on  truth,  the  world 

Like  one  great  garden  showed, 
And  through  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark  upcuried. 

Rare  sunrise  flowed. 

And  Freedom  reared  in  that  august  sunrise 

Her  beautiful  bold  brow, 
When  rites  and  forms  before  his  burning  eyes 

Melted  like  snow. 

There  was  no  blood  upon  her  maiden  robes 

Sunned  by  those  orient  skies  ; 
But  round  about  the  circles  of  the  globes 

Of  her  keen  eyes 

And  in  her  raiment's  hem  was  traced  in  flame 

Wisdom,  a  name  to  shake 
All  evil  dreams  of  power  —  a  sacred  name. 

And  when  she  spake, 

Her  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they  ran, 
And  as  the  lightning  to  the  thunder 

Which  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of  man, 
Making  earth  wonder, 


THE    POET.  47 

So  was  their  meaning  to  her  vvords.     No  sword 

Of  wrath  her  right  arm  whirled, 
But  one  poor  poet's  scroll,  and  with  his  word 

She  shook  the  world. 


THE    POET'S     MIND. 


Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind 

With  thy  shallow  wit : 
Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind ; 

For  thou  can'st  not  fathom  it 
Clear  and  bright  it  should  be  ever, 
Flowing  like  a  crj'stal  river ; 
Bright  as  light,  and  clear  as  wind. 


Dark-browed  sophist,  come  not  anear  ; 

All  the  place  is  holy  ground  ; 
Hollow  smile  and  frozen  sneer 

Come  not  here. 
Holy  water  will  I  pour  . 
Into  every  spicy  flower 


THE  poet's  mind.  49 

Of  the  laurel-shrubs  that  hedge  it  around. 
The  flowers  would  faint  at  your  cruel  cheer. 
In  your  eye  there  is  death, 
There  is  frost  in  your  breath 
Which  would  blight  the  plants. 
Where  you  stand  you  cannot  hear 
From  the  groves  within 
The  wild-bird's  din. 
In  the  heart  of  the  garden  the  merry  bird  chaunts, 
It  would  fall  to  the  ground  if  you  came  in. 
In  the  middle  leaps  a  fountain 
Like  sheet  lightning, 
Ever  brightening 
With  a  low  melodious  thunder  ; 
All  day  and  all  night  it  is  ever  drawn 
From  the  brain  of  the  purple  mountain 
Which  stands  in  the  distance  yonder : 
It  springs  on  a  level  of  boweiy  lawn, 
And  the  mountain  draws  it  from  Heaven  above. 
And  it  sings  a  song  of  undying  love  ; 
And  yet,  though  its  voice  be  so  clear  and  full, 
y^ou  never  would  hear  it  —  your  ears  are  so  dull ; 
So  keep  where  you  are :  you  are  foul  with  sin; 
It  would  shrink  to  the  earth  if  you  came  in. 


THE    DYING    SWAN 


The  plain  was  grassy,  wild  and  bare, 
Wide,  wild,  and  open  to  the  air. 
Which  had  built  up  everyAvhere 

An  under-roof  of  doleful  gray. 
With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 
Adown  it  floated  a  dying  swan, 

Which  loudly  did  lament. 
It  was  the  middle  of  the  day. 

Ever  the  weary  wind  went  on, 

And  took  the  reed-tops  as  it  went. 

Some  blue  peaks  in  the  distance  rose, 
And  white  against  the  cold-white  sky 
Shone  out  their  crovvTiing  snows. 


THE    DVING    SWAN.  51 

One  willow  over  the  river  wept, 
And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did  sigh ; 
Above  in  the  wind  was  the  swallow, 
Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will, 
And  far  through  tne  marish  green  and  still 

The  tangled  water-courses  slept, 
Shot  over  with  purple,  and  green  and  yellow. 

The  wild  swan's  death-hymn  took  the  soul 

Of  that  waste  place  with  joy 

Hidden  in  sorrow  :  at  first  to  the  ear  ^ 

The  warble  was  low,  and  full  and  clear ; 

And  floating  about  the  under-sky, 

Prevailing  in  weakness,  the  coronach  stole 

Sometimes  afar,  and  sometimes  anear; 

But  anon  her  awful  jubilant  voice, 

With  a  music  strange  and  manifold, 

Flowed  forth  on  a  carol  free  and  bold : 

As  when  a  migluy  people  rejoice 

With  shawms,  and  with  cymbals,  and  harps  of  gold, 

And  the  tumult  of  their  acclaim  is  rolled 

Through  the  open  gates  of  the  city  afar. 

To  the  shepherd  who  watcheth  the  evening  star. 

And  the  creeping  mosses  and  clambering  weeds, 

A.n'1  the  willow-branches  hoar  and  dank, 


62  THE    DYING    SWAN. 

And  the  wavy  swell  of  the  soughing  reeds, 
And  the  wave-worn  horns  of  the  echoing  bank, 
And  the  silvery  marish-flowers  that  throng 
The  desolate  creeks  and  pools  among, 
Were  flooded  over  with  eddying  song. 


A    DIRGE. 


Now  is  done  thy  long  day's  work ; 
Fold  thy  palms  across  thy  breast, 
Fold  thine  arms,  turn  to  thy  rest. 

Let  them  rave. 
Shadows  of  the  silver  birk 
Sweep  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


n. 

Thee  nor  carketh  care  nor  slander ; 
Nothing  but  the  small  cold  worm 
Fretteth  thine  enshrouded  form. 

Let  them  rave. 
Light  and  shadow  ever  wander 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


54  A  dirctE. 


Thoxa  wilt  not  turn  upon  thy  bed  ; 
Chaunteth  not  the  brooding  bee 
Sweeter  tones  than  cahimny  ? 

Let  them  rave. 
Thou  wilt  never  raise  thine  head 
From  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

rv. 

Crocodiles  wept  tears  for  thee  ; 

The  woodbine  and  eglatere 

Drip  sweeter  dews  than  traitor's  tear. 

Let  them  rave. 
Rain  makes  music  in  the  tree 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


V. 

Round  thee  blow,  self-pleached  deep, 
Bramble-roses,  faint  and  pale, 
And  long  purples  of  the  dale. 
Let  them  rave. 


A    DIRGE,  55 

These  in  every  shower  creep 
Through  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 

VI. 

The  gold-eyed  kingcups  fine, 
The  frail  bluebell  peereth  over 
Rare  broidry  of  the  purple  clover. 

Let  them  rave. 
Kings  have  no  such  couch  as  thnie. 
As  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

VII. 

Wild  words  wander  here  ntul  there  ; 
God's  great  gift  of  speech  abused 
Makes  thy  memory  confused  — 

But  let  them  rave. 
The  balm-cricket  carols  clear 
In  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


LOVE    AND    DEATH. 


What  lime  the  mighty  moon  was  gathering  light, 

Love  paced  the  thymy  plots  of  Paradise, 

And  all  about  him  rolled  his  lustrous  eyes  ; 

When,  turning  round  a  cassia,  full  in  view 

Death,  walking  all  alone  beneath  a  yew, 

Ana  talking  to  himself,  first  met  his  signt : 

"You  must  begone,"  said  Death  ;  "  these  walks  are  mine. 

Love  wept  and  spread  his  sheeny  vans  for  flight ; 

Yet  ere  he  parted  said,  "  This  hour  is  thine ; 

Thou  art  the  shadow  of  life,  and  as  the  tree 

Stands  in  the  sun  and  shadows  all  beneath, 

So  in  the  light  of  great  eternity 

Life  eminent  creates  the  shade  of  death  ; 

The  shadow  passeth  when  the  tree  shall  fall, 

But  1  shall  reijxu  forever  over  all." 


TIIK 

BALT,  AD    OF    ORlANA 


My  heart  is  wasted  with  my  woe, 

Oriana, 
Tiiere  is  no  rest  for  me  below 

Oriana. 
When  the  long  dun  wolds  are  rlLbcd  with  snow, 
And  loud  the  Norland  whirlwinds  blo"^ 

Oriana, 
Alone  I  wander  to  and  fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere  the  light  on  dark  was  growing, 

Oriana, 
At  midnight  the  cock  was  crowing, 

Oriana : 


58  THE    BALLAD    OF    ORIANA. 

Winds  were  blowing,  waters  flowing, 
We  heard  the  steeds  to  battle  going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud  the  hollow  bugle  blowing 

Oriana. 

In  the  yew-wood,  black  as  night, 

Oriana, 
Ere  I  rode  into  the  fight, 

Oriana, 
While  blissful  tears  blinded  my  sight, 
By  star-shine  and  by  moon-light, 

Oriana, 
I  to  thee  my  troth  did  plight, 

Oriana. 

She  stood  upon  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana : 
She  watched  my  crest  among  them  all, 

Oriana : 
She  saw  me  fight,  she  heard  me  call, 
When  forth  there  stept  a  foeman  tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween  me  and  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana. 


'fHE    BALLAD    OF    ORIANA.  59 

The  bitter  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 
The  false,  false  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 
The  damned  arrow  glanced  aside, 
And  pierced  thy  heart,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana ! 
Thy  heart,  my  life,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana ! 

0  !  narrow,  narrow  was  the  space, 

Oriana. 
Loud,  loud  rung  out  the  bugle's  brays, 

Oriana. 
O  !  deathful  stabs  were  dealt  apace. 
The  battle  deepened  in  its  place, 

Oriana ; 
But  I  was  down  upon  my  face, 

Oriana. 

They  should  have  stabbed  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana ! 
How  could  I  rise  and  come  away, 

Oriana  ? 


60  THE    BALLAD    OF    ORIANA. 

How  could  I  look  upon  the  day  ? 

They  should  have  stabbed  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana  — 
They  should  have  trod  me  into  clay, 

Oriana. 

0 !  breaking  heart  that  will  not  break, 

Oriana ; 
0 !  pale,  pale  face  so  sweet  and  meek, 

Oriana. 
Thou  smilest,  but  thou  dost  not  speak, 
And  then  the  tears  run  down  my  cheek, 

Oriana : 
What  wantest  thou  ?  whom  dost  thou  seek, 

Oriana  ? 

I  cry  aloud :  none  hear  my  cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou  comest  atween  me  and  the  skies, 

Oriana. 
I  feel  the  tears  of  blood  arise 
Up  from  my  heart  unto  my  eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within  thy  heart  my  arrow  lies, 

Oriana. 


THE    BALLAD    OF    ORIANA.  61 

0  cursed  hand !  oh  cursed  blow ! 
Oriana ! 

0  happy  thou  that  liest  low, 

Oriana ! 
All  night  the  silence  seems  to  flow 
Beside  me  in  my  utter  woe, 

Oriana. 
A  weary,  weary  way  I  go, 

Oriana. 

When  Norland  winds  pipe  down  the  sea, 
Oriana, 

1  walk,  I  dare  not  thinlc  of  thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou  liest  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 
I  dare  not  die  and  come  to  thee, 

Oriana. 
I  hear  the  roaring  of  the  sea, 

Oriana. 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 


Two  children  in  two  neighbor  villages 
Playing  mad  pranks  along  the  heathy  leas; 
Two  strangers  meeting  at  a  festival ; 
Two  lovers  whispering  by  an  orchard  wall ; 
Two  lives  bound  fast  in  one  with  golden  ease  j 
Two  graves  grass-green  beside  a  gray  church-to^^  er, 
Washed  with  still  rains  and  daisy-blossomed  ; 
Two  children  in  one  hamlet  born  and  bred ; 
So  runs  the  round  of  life  from  hour  to  hour. 


THE     MERMAN, 


Who  would  be 
A  merman  bold 

Sitting  alone, 

Singing  alone 

Under  the  sea, 
With  a  cro\vn  of  gold, 

On  a  throne  ? 

I  would  be  a  merman  bold ; 
I  would  sit  and  sing  the  whole  of  the  da}^ ; 
I  would  fill  the  sea-halls  with  a  voice  of  power 
But  at  night  I  would  roam  abroad,  and  play 
With  the  mermaids  in  and  out  of  the  rocks, 
Dressing  their  hair  with  the  white  sea-flower ; 
And  holding  them  back  by  their  flowing  locks, 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea. 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kissed  me 

Laughingly,  laughingly; 


64  THE    MERMAN. 

And  then  we  would  wander  away,  away 
To  the  pale-green  sea-groves  straight  and  high, 
Chasing  each  other  merrily. 

There  would  be  neither  moon  nor  star ; 

But  the  wave  would  make  music  above  us  afar  — 

Low  thunder  and  light  in  the  magic  night  — 

Neither  moon  nor  star. 
We  would  call  aloud  in  the  dreamy  dells, 
Call  to  each  other  and  whoop  and  cry 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily ; 
They  would  pelt  me  with  starry  spangles  and  shells, 
Laughing  and  clapping  their  hands  between, 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily ; 
But  I  would  throw  them  back  in  mine 
Turkis  and  agate  and  almondine  : 
Then  leaping  out  upon  them  unseen, 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea. 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kissed  me 

Laughingly,  laughingly. 
O  !  what  a  happy  life  were  mine 
Under  the  hollow-hung  ocean  green ! 
Soft  are  the  moss-beds  under  the  sea  ; 
We  would  live  merrily,  merrily. 


THE    MERMAID 


Who  would  be 
A  mermaid  fair, 
Singing  alone, 
Combing  her  hair 
Under  the  sea, 
In  a  golden  curl 
With  a  comb  of  pearl, 
On  a  throne  ? 

I  would  be  a  mermaid  fair  ; 
I  would  sing  to  myself  the  whole  of  the  day ; 
With  a  comb  of  pearl  I  Avould  comb  my  hair  ; 
And  still  as  I  combed  I  would  sing  and  say, 
"  Who  is  it  loves  me  ?  who  loves  not  Uie  ? " 
I  would  comb  my  hair  till  my  ringlets  would  iai 


66  THE    MERMAID. 

Low  adown,  low  adown, 
From  under  my  starry  sea-bud  crown 

Low  adown  and  around, 
And  I  should  look  like  a  fountain  of  gold 
Springing  alone 

With  a  shrill  inner  sound, 
Over  the  throne 

In  the  midst  of  the  hall ; 
Till  that  great  sea-snake  under  the  sea 
From  his  coiled  sleeps  in  the  central  deeps 
Would  slowly  trail  himself  sevenfold 
Round  the  hall  where  I  sate,  and  look  ia  at  the  gate 
With  his  large  calm  eyes  for  the  love  of  me. 
And  all  the  mermen  under  the  sea 
Would  feel  their  immortality 
Die  in  their  hearts  for  the  love  of  me. 

But  at  night  I  would  wander  away,  away, 
I  would  fling  on  each  &ide  my  low-flowing  locks. 

And  lightly  vault  from  the  throne  and  play 
With  the  mermen  in  and  out  of  the  rocks ; 

We  would  run  to  and  fro,  and  hide  and  seek, 
On  the  broad  sea-wolds  i'  the  crimson  shells, 
Whose  silvery  spikes  are  nighest  the  sea. 

But  if  any  came  near,  I  would  call,  and  shriek, 

And  adow  n  the  steep  like  a  wave  I  would  leap 


THE    MERMAID. 


From  the  diamond  ledges  that  jut  from  the  dells  ; 
For  I  would  not  be  kissed  by  all  who  would  list, 
Of"  the  bold  merry  mennen  under  the  sea ; 
They  would  sue  me,  and  woo  me,  and  flatter  me, 
In  the  purple  twilights  under  the  sea ; 
But  the  king  of  them  all  would  carry  me, 
Woo  me,  and  win  me,  and  many  me. 
In  the  branching  jaspers  under  the  sea ; 
Then  all  the  diy  pied  things  that  be 
In  the  hueless  mosses  under  the  sea 
Would  curl  round  my  silver  feet  silently. 
All  looking  up  for  the  love  of  me. 
And  if  I  should  carol  aloud,  from  aloft 
All  things  that  are  forked,  and  horned,  and  soft, 
Would  lean  out  from  the  hollow  sphere  of  the  sea. 
All  lookinjj  down  for  the  love  of  me. 


SONNET    TO    J.M.K 


My  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee  —  thou  wilt  be 

A  latter  Luther,  and  a  soldier-priest 

To  scare  church-harpies  from  the  master's  feast ; 

Our  dusted  velvets  have  much  need  of  thee  : 

Thou  art  no  sabbath-drawler  of  old  saws, 

Distilled  from  some  worm-cankered  homily; 

But  spurred  at  heart  with  fieriest  energy 

To  embattail  and  to  wall  about  thy  cause 

With  iron-worded  proof,  hating  to  hark 

The  humming  of  the  drowsy  pulpit-drone 

Half  God's  good  sabbath,  while  the  worn-out  clerk 

Brow-beats  his  desk  below.     Thou  from  a  throne 

Mounted  in  heaven  wilt  shoot  into  the  dark 

Arrows  of  lightnings.     I  will  stand  and  mark. 


POEMS. 


(PUBLISHED  1832.) 


THE    LADY    OF    SHALOTT. 


PART     I. 


On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky 
And  through  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-towered  Camel  ot ; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Through  the  wave  that  runs  forever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 


72  THE    LADY    OF    SHALOTT. 

Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veiled, 
Suae  the  heavy  barges  trailed 
By  slow  horses  ;  and  unbailed, 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sailed, 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot : 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand  ? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand  ? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott  ? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  towered  Camelot : 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airj'. 
Listening,  whispers  "  'T  is  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott." 


THE    LADY    OF    SHALOTT.  73 


PART     IT. 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colors  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily. 
And  little  other  care  hath  she. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  through  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  ner  all  the  year 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot : 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls. 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market-girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad 

VOL.   t.  6 


74  THE    LADY    OF    SHALOTT. 

Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-haired  page  in  crimson  clad, 

Goes  by  to  towered  Camelot ; 
And  sometimes  through  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two : 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights, 
For  often  through  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights. 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot : 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead. 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed  ; 
"  I  am  half-sick  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


PART    III. 


A  BOW-SHOT  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley  sheaves. 


THE    LADY    OF    SHALOTT.  75 

The  sun  came  dazzling  through  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  redcross  Imight  forever  kneeled 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glittered  free, 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot : 
And  from  his  blazoned  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewelled  shone  the  saddle-leather, 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burned  like  one  burning  flame  together, 
As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
As  often  through  the  purple  night, 


76  THE    LADY    OF    SHALOTT. 

Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 
Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glowed , 
On  burnished  hooves  his  war-horse  trode , 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flowed 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode. 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flashed  into  the  crj^stal  mirror, 
"  Tirra  lirra,"  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  looni, 
She  made  three  paces  through  the  room, 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom, 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 

She  looked  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide ; 
The  mirror  cracked  from  side  to  side ; 
"  The  curse  is  come  upon  me,"  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


THE    LADY    OF    SHALOTT 


PART     IV, 


In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining, 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  towered  Camelot ; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat, 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

The  Lady  of  S/ialolt. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse  — 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance. 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance  — 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay ; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 

That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right —   . 


78  THE    LADY    OF    SHALOIT. 

The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light  — 
Through  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willow^'  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  moui-nful,  holy. 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly. 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly. 
And  her  eyes  were  darkened  wholly, 

Turned  to  towered  Camelot ; 
For  ere  she  reached  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 
By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 
A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 
A  corse  between  the  houses  high. 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came. 


THE    LADY    OF    SHALOTT.  79 

Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame, 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this  ?  and  what  is  here  ? 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer ; 
And  they  crossed  themselves  for  fear, 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot : 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space  ; 
He  said,  "  She  has  a  lovely  face ; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 


MARIANA   IN    THE   SOUTH. 


With  one  black  shadow  at  its  feet, 

The  house  through  all  the  level  shines, 
Close-latticed  to  the  brooding  heat, 

And  silent  in  its  dusty  vines  : 
A  faint-blue  ridge  upon  the  right, 
An  empty  river-bed  before, 
And  shallows  on  a  distant  shore. 
In  glaring  sand  and  inlets  bright. 

But  "  Ave  Mary,"  made  she  moan, 

And  "  Ave  Mary,"  night  and  morn, 

And  "  Ah,"  she  sang,  "  to  be  all  alone, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn." 

II. 

She,  as  her  carol  sadder  grew, 
From  brow  and  bosom  slowly  down 

Through  rosy  taper  fingers  drew 

Her  streaming  curls  of  deepest  brown 


MARIANA    IN    THE    SOUTH.  81 

To  left  and  right,  and  made  appear, 
Still-lighted  in  a  secret  shrine, 
Her  melancholy  eyes  divine, 
The  home  of  woe  without  a  tear. 

And  "  Ave  Mary,"  was  her  moan, 

"  Madonna,  sad  is  night  and  morn  ;" 
And  "  Ah,"  she  sang,  "  to  be  all  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn." 

III. 

Till  all  the  crimson  changed,  and  past 

Into  deep  orange  o'er  the  sea, 
Low  on  her  knees  herself  she  cast, 

Before  Our  Lady  murmured  she  ; 
Complaining,  "  Mother,  give  me  grace 
To  help  me  of  my  weary  load." 
And  on  the  liquid  mirror  glowed 
The  clear  perfection  of  her  face. 

"  Is  this  the  form,"  she  made  her  moan, 

"  That  won  his  praises  night  and  mom  ' ' 
And  "  Ah,"  she  said,  "  but  I  wake  alone 
I  sleep  forgotten,  I  wake  forlorn," 
6 


82  MARIANA    IN    THE    SOUTH. 


IV. 

Nor  bird  would  sing',  nor  lamb  would  bleat, 

Nor  any  cloud  would  cross  the  vault. 
But  day  increased  from  heat  to  heat, 

On  stony  drought  and  steaming  salt ; 
Till  now  at  noon  she  slept  again, 

And  seemed  knee-deep  in  mountain  grass. 
And  heard  her  native  breezes  pass. 
And  runlets  babbling  down  the  glen. 

She  breathed  in  sleep  a  lower  moan, 

And  murmuring,  as  at  night  and  morn, 
She  thought,  "  My  spirit  is  here  alone, 
Walks  forgotten,  and  is  forlorn." 

V. 

Dreaming,  she  knew  it  was  a  dream  : 

She  felt  he  was  and  was  not  there. 
She  woke  :  the  babble  of  the  stream 

Fell,  and  without  the  steady  glare 
Shrank  the  sick  olive  sere  and  small. 

The  river-bed  was  dusty  white  ; 

And  all  the  furnace  of  the  light 
Struck  up  against  the  blinding  wall. 


MAKIA^NA    IN    THE    SOUTH.  83 

She  whispered,  with  a  stifled  moan 
More  inward  than  at  night  or  morn, 

"  Sweet  Mother,  let  me  not  here  alone 
Live  forgotten,  and  die  forlorn." 

VI. 

And,  rising,  from  her  bosom  drew 

Old  letters,  breathing  of  her  worth, 
For  "  Love,"  they  said,  "must  needs  be  true, 

To  what  is  loveliest  upon  earth." 
An  image  seemed  to  pass  the  door, 
To  look  at  her  with  slight,  and  say, 
"  But  now  thy  beauty  flows  away, 
So  be  alone  for  evermore." 

"  0  cruel  heart,"  she  changed  her  tone, 
"  And  cruel  love,  whose  end  is  scorn, 
Is  this  the  end  to  be  left  alone, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  die  forlorn  ! " 


vn. 

But  sometimes  in  the  falling  day 
An  image  seemed  to  pass  the  door, 

To  look  into  her  eyes  and  say, 

"  But  thou  shalt  be  alone  no  more." 


S4  MARIAJ^A   m    THE    SOUTH. 

And  flaming  downward  over  all 

From  heat  to  heat  the  day  decreased, 
And  slowly  rounded  to  the  east 
The  one  black  shadow  from  the  wall. 

"  The  day  to  night,"  she  made  her  moan, 
"  The  day  to  night,  the  night  to  mom. 
And  day  and  night  I  am  left  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn." 

vra. 

At  eve  a  dry  cicala  sung, 

There  came  a  sound  as  of  the  sea  ; 
Backward  the  lattice-blind  she  flung. 

And  leaned  upon  the  balcony. 
There  all  in  spaces  rosy-bright 

Large  Hesper  glittered  on  her  tears. 
And  deepening  through  the  silent  spheres, 
Heaven  over  Heaven  rose  the  night. 

And  weeping  then  she  made  her  moan, 

"  The  night  comes  on  that  knows  not  rnori 
When  I  shall  cease  to  be  all  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  tbriorn." 


ELEANORE, 


Tuv  dark  eyes  opened  not, 

Nor  first  revealed  themselves  to  English  air 
For  there  is  nothing  here, 
Which,  from  the  outward  to  the  inward  brought, 
Moulded  thy  baby  thought. 
Fur  off  from  human  neighborhood. 

Thou  wert  born,  on  a  summer  niorti, 
A  mile  beneath  the  cedar- wood. 
Thy  bounteous  forehead  was  not  fanned 

With  breezes  from  our  oaken  glades, 
But  thou  wert  nursed  in  some  delicious  land 

Of  lavish  lights,  and  floating  shades  : 
And  flattering  thy  childish  thought 

The  oriental  fairy  brought. 

At  the  moment  of  thy  birth, 


ft(i  E  LEAN  ORE. 

From  old  well-heads  of  haunted  rills, 

And  the  hearts  of  purple  hills, 

And  shadowed  coves  on  a  sunny  shore, 
The  choicest  wealth  of  all  the  earth, 
Jewel  or  shell,  or  starry  ore. 
To  deck  thy  cradle,  Eleilnore, 

Or  the  yellow-banded  bees, 
Through  half-open  lattices 
Coming  in  the  scented  breeze, 

Fed  thee,  a  child,  lying  alone, 

With  whitest  honey  in  fairy  gardens  culled  - 
A  glorious  child,  dreaming  alone. 
In  silk-soft  folds,  upon  yielding  down, 
With  the  hum  of  swarming  bees 

Into  dreamful  slumber  lulled. 

Who  may  minister  to  thee  ? 
Summer  herself  should  minister 

To  thee,  with  fruitage  golden-rinded 

On  golden  salvers,  or  it  may  be. 
Youngest  Autumn,  in  a  bower 
Grape-thickened  from  the  light,  and  blinded 

With  many  a  deep-hued  bell-like  flower 


ELEANORE.  87 

Of  fragrant  trailers,  when  the  air 
Sleepeth  over  all  the  heaven, 
And  the  crag  that  fronts  the  Even, 
All  along  the  shadowing  shore, 
Crimsons  over  an  inland  mere, 
Eleanore  ! 

How  may  full-sailed  verse  express, 
How  may  measured  words  adore 
The  full-flowing  harmony 
Of  thy  swan-like  stateliness, 
Eleanore  ? 
The  luxuriant  symmetry 
Of  thy  floating  gracefulness, 
Eleanore  ? 
Every  turn  and  glance  of  thine, 
Every  lineament  divine, 

Eleanore, 
And  the  steady  sunset  glow, 
That  stays  upon  thee  ?     For  in  thee 

Is  nothing  sudden,  nothing  single  ; 
Like  two  streams  of  incense  tree 

From  one  censer,  in  one  shrine. 
Thought  and  motion  mingle. 
Mingle  ever.     Motions  flow 


8S  ELEANORE. 

To  one  another,  even  as  thou^-h 
They  were  modulated  so 

To  an  unheard  melody, 
Which  lives  about  thee,  and  a  sweep 

Of  richest  pauses,  evermore 
Drawn  from  each  other  mellow-deep ; 

Who  may  express  thee,  EleiUiore  ? 

I  stand  before  thee,  Eleiinore  ; 

1  see  thy  beauty  gradually  unfold. 
Daily  and  hourly,  more  and  more. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  the  while 

Slowly,  as  from  a  cloud  of  gold, 
Comes  out  thy  deep  ambrosial  smile. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  whene'er 

The  languors  of  thy  love-deep  eyes 
Float  on  to  me.     I  would  I  were 

So  tranced,  so  rapt  in  ecstasies. 
To  stand  apart,  and  to  adore, 
Gazing  on  thee  for  evermore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleiinore! 

Sometimes,  with  most  intensity 

Gazing,  I  seem  to  see 

Thought  folded  over  thought,  smiling  asleep. 


ELEANORE.  89 

Slowly  awakened,  grow  so  full  and  deep 

In  thy  large  eyes,  that,  overpowered  quite, 

I  cannot  veil,  or  droop  my  sight, 

But  am  as  nothing  in  its  light : 

As  though  a  star,  in  inmost  heaven  set. 

Even  while  we  gaze  on  it. 

Should  slowly  round  his  orb,  and  slowly  grow 

To  a  full  face,  there  like  a  sun  remam 

Fixed  —  then  as  slowly  fade  again, 

And  draw  itself  to  what  it  was  before ; 
So  full,  so  deep,  so  slow. 
Thought  seems  to  come  and  go 
In  thy  large  eyes,  imperial  Eleanore. 

As  thunder-clouds  that,  hung  on  high. 

Roofed  the  world  with  doubt  and  fear, 

Floating  through  an  evening  atmosphere, 

Grow  golden  all  about  the  sky  ; 

In  thee  all  passion  becomes  passionless, 

Touched  by  thy  spirit's  mellowness. 

Losing  his  fire  and  active  might 
In  a  silent  meditation. 

Falling  into  a  still  delight. 

And  luxury  of  contemplation  : 


90  ELEANORE. 

As  waves  that  up  a  quiet  cove 
Rolling  slide,  and  lying  still 

Shadow  forth  the  banks  at  will ; 
Or  sometimes  they  swell  and  move, 
Pressing  up  against  the  land, 
With  motions  of  the  outer  sea  : 
And  the  self-same  influence 
Controlleth  all  the  soul  and  sense 
Of  Passion  gazing  upon  thee. 
His  bow-string  slackened,  languid  Love, 
Leaning  his  cheek  upon  his  hand, 
Droops  both  his  wings,  regarding  thee, 
And  so  would  languish  eveiTnore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore. 

But  when  I  see  thee  roam,  with  tresses  unconfined, 
While  the  amorous,  odorous  wind 

Breathes  low  between  the  sunset  and  the  moon 
Or,  in  a  shadowy  saloon, 
On  silken  cushions  half  reclined  ; 

I  watch  thy  grace ;  and  in  its  place 
My  heart  a  charmed  slumber  keeps, 

While  I  muse  upon  thy  face ; 
And  a  languid  fire  creeps 


ELEANORE.  91 

Through  my  veins  to  all  my  frame, 
Dissolvingly  and  slowly :  soon, 

From  thy  rose-red  lips  my  name 
Floweth ;  and  then,  as  in  a  swoon, 

With  dinning  sound  my  ears  are  rife. 
My  tremulous  tongue  faltereth. 
I  lose  my  color,  I  lose  my  breath, 
I  drink  the  cup  of  a  costly  death, 
Brimmed  with  delirious  draughts  of  warniest  life. 
I  die  with  my  delight,  before 

I  hear  what  I  would  hear  from  thee ; 
Yet  tell  my  name  again  to  rne. 
I  ivould  be  dying  evermore, 
So  dying  ever,  Eleanore. 


THE  MILLER'S    DAUGHTER. 


I  SEE  the  wealthy  miller  yet, 

His  double  chin,  his  portly  size. 
And  who  that  knew  him  could  forget 

The  busy  wrinkles  round  his  eyes  ? 
The  slow  wise  smile  that,  rouna  aoout 

His  dusty  forehead  drily  curled. 
Seemed  half- within  and  half-without, 

And  full  of  dealings  with  the  world  ? 

In  yonder  chair  I  see  him  sit, 

Three  fingers  round  the  old  silver  cup  - 
I  see  his  gray  eyes  twinkle  yet 

At  his  own  jest  —  gray  eyes  lit  up 
With  summer  lightnings  of  a  soul 

So  full  of  summer  warmth,  so  glad, 
So  healthy,  sound,  and  clear  and  whole. 

His  memory  scarce  can  make  me  sad. 


THE    miller's    DAnGHTER.  93 

Yet  fill  my  glass  :  give  me  one  kiss  : 

My  own  sweet  Alice,  we  must  die. 
There  's  somewhat  in  this  world  amiss 

Shall  be  unriddled  by  and  by. 
There  's  somewhat  flows  to  us  in  life, 

But  more  is  taken  quite  away. 
Pray,  Alice,  pray,  my  darling  wife, 

That  we  may  die  the  self-same  day. 

Have  I  not  found  a  happy  earth  ? 

I  least  should  breathe  a  thought  of  pain. 
Would  God  renew  me  from  my  birth 

I  'd  almost  live  my  life  again. 
So  sweet  it  seems  with  thee  to  walk, 

And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine  — 
It  seems  in  after-dinner  talk 

Across  the  walrmts  and  the  wine  — 

To  be  the  long  and  listless  boy 

Late  left  an  orphan  of  the  squire. 
Where  this  old  mansion  mounted  high 

Looks  down  upon  the  village  spire  : 
For  even  here,  where  I  and  you 

Have  lived  and  loved  alone  so  long, 
Each  morn  my  sleep  was  broken  through 

By  some  wild  skylark's  matin  song. 


94  THE  miller's  daughter. 

And  oft  I  heard  the  tender  dove 

In  firry  woodlands  making  moan ; 
But  ere  I  saw  your  eyes,  my  love, 

I  had  no  motion  of  my  own. 
For  scarce  my  life  with  fancy  played 

Before  I  dreamed  that  pleasant  dream  — • 
Still  hither  thither  idly  swayed 

Like  those  long  mosses  in  the  stream. 

Or  from  the  bridge  I  leaned  to  hear 

The  milldam  rushing  down  with  noise, 
And  see  the  minnows  everywhere 

In  crystal  eddies  glance  and  poise, 
The  tall  flag-flowers,  where  they  sprung 

Below  the  range  of  stepping  stones, 
And  those  three  chestnuts  near,  that  hung 

In  masses  thick  with  milky  cones. 

But,  Alice,  what  an  hour  was  that, 

When,  after  roving  in  the  woods, 
('T  was  April  then,)  I  came  and  sat 

Below  the  chestnuts,  when  their  bnJs 
Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue  ; 

And  on  the  slope,  an  absent  fool, 
I  cast  me  dowTi,  nor  thought  of  you, 

But  angled  in  the  higher  pool. 


THE    miller's    daughter.  9o 

A  love-song  I  had  somewhere  read, 

An  echo  from  a  measured  strain, 
Beat  time  to  nothing  in  the  head 

From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain. 
It  haunted  me,  the  morning  long. 

With  weary  sameness  in  the  rhymes, 
The  phantom  of  a  silent  song. 

That  went  and  came  a  thousand  times. 

Then  leapt  a  trout.     In  lazy  mood 

I  watched  the  little  circles  die  ; 
They  past  into  the  level  flood, 

And  there  a  vision  caught  my  eye ; 
The  reflex  of  a  beauteous  form, 

A  glowing  arm,  a  gleaming  neck, 
As  when  a  sunbeam  wavers  Avarm 

Within  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck. 

For  you  remember,  you  had  set, 

That  iiforning,  on  the  casement's  edge 
A  long  green  box  of  mignonette, 

And  you  were  leaning  from  the  ledge  : 
And  when  I  raised  my  eyes,  above 

They  met  with  two  so  full  and  bright  — 
Such  eyes  I  I  swear  to  you,  my  love, 

That  these  hav^e  never  lost  their  lijrht. 


96  THE    MILLER'S    DAUGHTEIJ, 

I  loved,  and  love  dispelled  the  fear 

That  I  should  die  an  early  death  : 
For  love  possessed  the  atmosphere, 

And  filled  the  breast  with  purer  breatri. 
My  mother  thought.  What  ails  the  boy  ? 

For  1  was  altered,  and  began 
To  move  about  the  house  with  joy. 

And  with  the  certain  step  of  man. 

I  loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 

Through  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill. 
The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam, 

The  pool  beneath  it  never  still, 
The  meal-sacks  on  the  whitened  floor, 

The  dark  round  of  the  dripping  wheel, 
The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal. 

And  oft  in  ramblings  on  the  wold, 

When  April  nights  began  tc^blow, 
And  April's  crescent  glimmered  cold, 

I  saw  the  village  lights  below ; 
I  knew  your  taper  far  away, 

And  full  at  heart  of  trembling  hope, 
From  off  the  wold  I  came,  and  lay 

Upon  the  freshly-flowered  slope. 


THE  miller's  daughter.  97 

The  deep  brook  groaned  beneath  the  mill ; 

And  "  by  that  lamp,"  I  thought,  "  she  sit^  !  " 
The  white  chalk-quarry  from  the  hill 

Gleamed  to  the  flying  moon  by  fits. 
"  0  that  I  were  beside  her  now ! 

O  will  she  answer  if  I  call  ? 
O  would  she  give  me  vow  for  vow, 

Sweet  Alice,  if  I  told  her  all  ?  " 

Sometimes  I  saw  you  sit  and  spin  ; 

And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind, 
Sometimes  I  heard  you  sing  within  ; 

Sometimes  your  shadow  crossed  the  blind  ; 
At  last  you  rose  and  moved  the  light. 

And  the  long  shadow  of  the  chair 
Flitted  across  into  the  night, 

And  all  the  casement  darkened  there. 

But  when  at  last  I  dared  to  speak, 

The  lanes,  you  know,  were  white  with  May ; 
Your  ripe  lips  moved  not,  but  your  cheek 

Flushed  like  the  coming  of  the  day ; 
And  so  it  was  —  half-sly,  half-shy. 

You  would,  and  would  not,  littl  ■  one ! 
Although  I  pleaded  tenderly. 

And  you  and  I  were  all  alone. 


98  THE  miller's  daughter. 

And  slowly  was  my  mother  brought 

To  yield  consent  to  my  desire  : 
She  wished  me  happy,  but  she  thought 

I  might  have  looked  a  little  higher ; 
And  I  was  young  —  too  young  to  wed  : 

"  Yet  must  I  love  her  for  your  sake  ; 
Go  fetch  your  Alice  here,"  she  said  : 

Her  eyelid  quivered  as  she  spake. 

And  down  I  went  to  fetch  my  bride  : 

But,  Alice,  you  were  ill  at  ease  ; 
This  dress  and  that  by  turns  you  tried. 

Too  fearful  that  you  should  not  please. 
I  loved  you  better  for  your  fears, 

I  knew  you  could  not  look  but  well ; 
And  dews,  that  would  have  fall'n  in  tears, 

I  kissed  away  before  they  fell. 

I  watched  the  little  flutterings, 

The  doubt  my  mother  would  not  see  ; 
She  spoke  at  large  of  many  things, 

And  at  the  last  she  spoke  of  me  ; 
And  turning  looked  upon  your  face, 

As  near  this  door  you  sat  apart, 
And  rose,  and,  with  a  silent  grace 

Approaching,  pressed  you  heart  to  heart. 


THE  miller's  daughter.  99 

Ah,  well  —  but  sing  the  foolish  song 

I  gave  you,  Alice,  on  the  day 
When,  ann  in  arm,  we  went  along, 

A  pensive  pair,  and' you  were  gay 
With  bridal  flowers  —  that  I  may  ser  m, 

As  in  the  nights  of  old,  to  lie 
Beside  the  mill-wheel  in  the  stream, 

While  those  full  chestnuts  whispei  by. 


It  is  the  miller's  daughter, 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 
That  I  would  be  the  jewel 
.  That  trembles  at  her  ear  : 
For,  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 
I  'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white 

And  I  would  be  the  girdle 
About  her  dainty,  dainty  waist, 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me 
In  sorrow  and  in  rest : 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I  'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  light. 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace. 
And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 

Willi  her  laughler  or  hor  sighs, 


lUO  THE    MILLER'S    DAUGHTER. 

And  I  would  lie  so  liglil,  so  light, 
I  scarce  should  he  unclasped  at  night. 


A  trifle,  sweet !  which  true  love  spells  — 

True  love  interprets  —  right  alone. 
His  light  upon  the  letter  dwells, 

For  all  the  spirit  is  his  ovra. 
So,  if  I  waste  words  now,  in  truth 

You  must  blame  Love.     His  early  rage 
Had  force  to  make  me  rhyme  in  youth, 

And  makes  me  talk  too  much  in  age. 

And  now  those  vivid  hours  are  gone, 

Like  mine  own  life  to  me  thou  art, 
Where  Past  and  Present,  wound  in  one, 

Do  make  a  garland  for  the  heart : 
So  sing  that  other  song  I  made. 

Half-angered  with  my  happy  lot, 
The  day,  when  in  the  chestnut  shade 

I  found  the  blue  Forget-me-not. 


Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net, 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget  ? 


THE    miller's    daughter.  101 

Many  suns  arise  and  set. 
Many  a  chance  the  years  beget. 
Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt. 

Even  so. 
Love  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 
Love  is  made  a  vague  regret. 
Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet. 
Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 
What  is  love  ?  for  we  forget : 

Ah,  no  !  no  ! 


Look  through  mine  eyes  with  thine.     True  vvife, 

Round  my  true  heart  thine  arms  entwine ; 
My  other  dearer  life  in  life, 

Look  through  my  very  soul  with  thine  ! 
Untouched  with  any  shade  of  years, 

May  those  kind  eyes  forever  dwell ! 
They  have  not  shed  a  many  tears, 

Dear  eyes,  since  first  I  knew  them  well. 

Yet  tears  they  shed  :  they  had  their  part 
Of  sorrow  :  for  when  time  was  ripe, 

The  still  aflfection  of  the  heart 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type, 


102  THE    MILLER  S    DAUGHTEK. 

That  into  stillness  past  again, 
And  left  a  want  unknown  before  ; 

Although  the  loss  that  brought  us  pain, 
That  loss  but  made  us  love  the  more, 

W  ith  farther  lookings  on.     The  kiss, 

The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss, 

The  comfort,  I  have  found  in  thee  : 
But  that  God  bless  thee,  dear — who  wrought 

Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind  — 
With  blessings  beyond  hope  or  thought. 

With  blessings  which  no  words  can  find. 

Arise,  and  let  us  wander  forth 

To  yon  old  mill  across  the  wolds ; 
For  look,  the  sunset,  south  and  north, 

Winds  all  the  vale  in  rosy  folds. 
And  fires  your  narrow  casement  glass, 

Touching  the  sullen  pool  below  : 
On  the  chalk-hill  the  bearded  grass 

Is  dry  and  dewless.     Let  us  go. 


F  A  T  1  M  A 


O  Love,  Love,  Love  !  0  withering  might ! 
O  sun,  that  from  thy  noonday  height 
Shudderest  when  I  strain  my  sight, 
Throbbmg  through  all  thy  heat  and  light, 
Lo,  falling  from  my  constant  mind, 
Lo,  parched  and  withered,  deaf  and  blind 
I  whirl  like  leaves  in  roaring  wind. 


Last  night  I  wasted  hateful  hours 
Rolow  the  city's  eastern  towers : 
1  tliirsted  for  the  brooks,  the  showers  : 
1  rolled  among  the  tender  flowers  : 

1  crushed  them  on  my  breast,  my  inouih 
I  looked  athwart  the  burning  drouth 
Of  that  Ions:  desert  to  the  south. 


104  FATIMA. 


m. 


Last  night,  when  some  one  spoke  his  name, 
From  my  swift  blood  that  went  and  came 
A  thousand  little  shafts  of  flame 
Were  shivered  in  my  narrow  frame. 
0  Love,  O  fire  !  once  he  drew 
With  one  long  kiss  my  whole  soul  through 
My  lips,  as  sunlight  drinketh  dew. 


Before  he  mounts  the  hill,  I  Imow 

He  Cometh  quickly :  from  below 

Sweet  gales,  as  from  deep  gardens,  blow 

Before  hirii,  striking  on  my  brow. 
In  mj''  dry  brain  my  spirit  soon, 
Down-deepening  from  swoon  to  swoon, 
Faints  like  a  dazzled  morning  moon. 

V. 

The  wind  sounds  like  a  silver  wire, 

And  from  beyond  the  noon  a  fire 

Is  poured  upon  the  hills,  and  m'gher 

The  skies  stoop  down  in  their  desire  ; 
And,  isled  in  sudden  seas  of  light, 
My  heart,  pierced  through  with  fierce  delight. 
Bursts  into  blossom  in  his  sight. 


FATIMA.  105 


VI. 


My  whole  soul  waiting  silently, 

All  naked  in  a  sultry  sky, 

Droops  blinded  with  his  shining  eye : 

I  will  possess  him  or  will  die. 

I  will  grow  round  him  in  his  place, 
Grow,  live,  die  looking  on  his  face 
Die,  dying  clasped  in  his  embrace. 


(ENONE. 


There  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 

Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 

The  swimming  vapor  slopes  athwart  the  glen, 

Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from  pine  to  pine, 

And  loiters,  slowly  drawn.     On  either  hand 

The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  midway  down 

Hang  rich  in  flowers,  and  far  below  them  roars 

The  long  brook  falling  through  the  cloven  ravine 

In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 

Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus 

Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning ;  but  in  front 

The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 

Tioas  and  Ilion's  columned  citadel. 

The  crown  of  Troas. 

Hither  came  at  noon 
Mournful  (Enone,  wandering  forlorn 
Of  Paris,  once  her  playmate  on  the  hills. 


107 


Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round  her  neck 
Floated  her  hair  or  seemed  to  float  in  rest. 
She,  leaning  on  a  fragment  twined  with  vine, 
Sang  to  the  stillness,  till  the  mountain-shade 
Sloped  downward  to  her  seat  from  the  upper  cliff. 

"  0  mother  Ida,  many-fountained  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
For  now  the  noonday  quiet  holds  the  hill : 
The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass : 
The  lizard,  with  his  shadow  on  the  stone, 
Rests  like  a  shadow,  and  the  cicala  sleeps. 
The  purple  flowers  droop  :  the  golden  bee 
Is  lily-cradled  :  I  alone  awake. 
My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  love. 
My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyes  are  dim, 
A.nd  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

"  0  mother  Ida,  many  fountained  Ida, 
Dear  niolher  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Hear  me  O  Earth,  hear  me  O  Hills,  O  Caves, 
That  house  the  cold  crowned  snake  !  O  inoautain  brooks. 
I  am  the  daughter  of  a  River-God ; 
Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak,  and  build  up  all 


108  CENONE 

My  sorrow  with  my  song,  as  yonder  walls 
Rose  slowly  to  a  music  slowly  breathed, 
A  cloud  that  gathered  shape :  for  it  may  be^ 
That,  while  I  speak  of  it,  a  little  while 
My  heart  may  wander  from  its  deeper  woe. 

"  0  mother  Ida,  many-fountained  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
I  waited  underneath  the  dawning  hills, 
Aloft  the  mountain  lawn  was  dewy-dark, 
And  de^^'y-dark  aloft  the  mountain  pine : 
Beautiful  Paris,  evil-hearted  Paris, 
Leading  a  jet-black  goat  white-horned,  white-hooved, 
Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone. 

"  0  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Far-ofT  the  torrent  called  me  from  the  cleft : 
Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 
The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.     With  down-dropt  eyes 
I  sat  alone :  white  breasted  like  a  star 
Fronting  the  dawn  he  moved ;  a  leopard  sldn 
Drooped  from  his  shoulder,  but  his  sunny  hair 
Clustered  about  his  temples  like  a  God's  ; 
And  his  cheek  brightened  as  the  foam-bow  brightens 


(ENONE.  109 

Wterj.  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and  all  my  heart 
V^Vent  forth  to  embrace  him  coming  ere  he  came. 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
He  smiled,  and  opening  out  his  milk-white  palm 
Disclosed  a  fruit  of  pure  Hesperian  gold, 
That  smelt  ambrosially,  and  while  I  looked 
And  listened,  the  full-flowing  river  of  speech 
Came  down  upon  my  heart. 

"  '  My  own  QEnone, 
Beautiful-browed  CEnone,  my  own  soul, 
Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming  rind  engraven 
"  For  the  most  fair,"  would  seem  to  award  it  thine, 
As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oread  huunt 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  all  grace 
Of  movement,  and  the  charm  of  married  brows.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
He  prest  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to  mine. 
And  added,  '  This  was  cast  upon  the  board. 
When  all  the  full-faced  presence  of  the  Gods 
Ranged  in  the  halls  of  Peleus ;  whereupon 
Rose  feua,  with  question  unto  whom  't  were  due : 


no 


But  light-foot  Iris  brought  it  yester-eve, 
Delivering  that  to  me,  by  common  voice 
Elected  umpire.     Here  comes  to-day 
Pallas  and  Aphrodite,  claiming  each 
This  meed  of  fairest.     Thou,  within  the  cave 
Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest  pine, 
Mayst  well  behold  them  unbeheld,  unheard 
Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of  Gods.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
It  was  the  deep  midnoon :  one  silvery  cloud 
Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piney  sides 
Of  this  long  glen.     Then  to  the  bower  they  came, 
Naked  they  came  to  that  smooth-swarded  bower, 
And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like  fire, 
Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel, 
Lotos  and  lilies  :  and  a  wind  arose. 
And  overhead  the  wandering  ivj  and  vine. 
This  way  and  that,  in  many  a  wild  festoon 
Ran  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarled  boughs 
With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  through  and  throug! 

"  O  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
On  the  tree-tops  a  crested  peacock  lit, 


11] 


And  o'er  him  flowed  a  golden  cloud,  and  leaned 
Upon  him,  slowly  dropping  fragrant  dew. 
Then  first  I  heard  the  voice  of  her,  to  whom 
Coming  through  Heaven,  like  a  light  that  grows 
Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind  the  Gods 
Rise  up  for  reverence.     She  to  Paris  made 
Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
Unquestioned,  overfloAving  revenue 
Wherewith  to  embellish  state,  '  from  many  a  vale 
And  river-sundered  champaign  clothed  with  corn, 
Or  labored  mines,  undrainable  of  ore. 
Honor,'  she  said,  '  and  homage,  tax  and  toll, 
From  many  an  inland  town  and  haven  large, 
Mast-thronged  beneath  her  shadowing  citadel 
In  glassy  bays  among  her  tallest  towers.' 

"  O  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Still  she  spake  on,  and  still  she  spake  of  power, 
'  Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all ; 
Po\A:;r  fitted  to  the  season;  wisdom-bred 
And  throned  of  wisdom  —  from  all  neighbor  crowns 
Alliance  and  allegiance,  till  thy  hand 
Fail  from  the  sceptre-stafF.     Such  boon  from  me, 
From  me.  Heaven's  Queen,  Paris,  to  thee  king-boni. 


1 2  (ENONE. 

A  shepherd  all  thy  life,  but  yet  king-born, 
Should  come  most  welcome,  seeing  men,  in  power 
Only,  are  likest  Gods,  who  have  attained 
Rest  in  a  happy  place  and  quiet  seats 
Above  the  thunder,  with  undying  bliss, 
In  knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  1  die. 
She  ceased,  and  Paris  held  the  costly  fruit 
Out  at  arm's-length,  so  much  the  thought  of  power 
Flattered  his  spirit ;  but  Pallas  where  she  stood 
Somewhat  apart,  her  clear  and  bared  limbs 
O'erthwarted  with  the  brazen-headed  spear 
Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold. 
The  while,  above,  her  full  and  earnest  eye 
Over  her  snovz-cold  breast  and  angry  cheek 
Kept  watch,  waiting  decision,  made  reply. 

"  '  Self-reverence,  self-knowledge,  self-control, 
These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign  power. 
Vet  not  for  power,  (power  of  herself 
Would  come  uncalled  for,)  but  to  live  by  law. 
Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear ; 
And  because  right  is  right,  to  follow  right 
Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  consequence.' 


OENONE.  113 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die, 
Again  she  said :  '  I  woo  thee  not  with  gifts. 
Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me 
To  fairer.     Judge  thou  me  by  what  I  am. 
So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 

Yet,  indeed, 
If  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed, 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of  fair. 
Unbiased  by  self-profit,  oh !  rest  thee  sure 
That  I  shall  love  thee  well  and  cleave  to  thee, 
So  that  my  vigor,  wedded  to  thy  blood. 
Shall  strike  within  thy  pulses,  like  a  God's, 
To  push  thee  forward  through  a  life  of  shocks. 
Dangers,  and  deeds,  until  endurance  grow 
Sinewed  with  action,  and  the  full-groAATi  will, 
Circled  through  all  experiences,  pure  law, 
Commeasure  perfect  freedom.' 

"  Here  she  ceased, 
And  Paris  pondered,  and  I  cried,  '  0  Paris, 
Give  it  to  Pallas ! '  but  he  heard  me  not, 
Or  hearing  would  not  hear  me,  woe  is  me ! 


114 


"  0  mother  Ida,  many-fountained  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful, 
Fresh  as  the  foam,  new-bathed  in  Paphian  wells, 
With  rosy  slender  fingers  backward  drew 
From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her  deep  hair 
Ambrosial,  golden  round  her  lucid  throat 
And  shoulder :  from  the  violets  her  light  foot 
Shone  rosy-white,  and  o'er  her  rounded  form 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  vine-bunches 
Floated  the  glowing  sunlights,  as  she  moved. 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
She  with  a  subtle  smile  in  her  mild  eyes. 
The  herald  of  her  triumph,  drawing  nigh, 
Half-whispered  in  his  ear,  '  I  promise  thee 
The  fairest  and  most  lovmg  wife  in  Greece.' 
She  spoke  and  laughed  :  I  shut  my  sight  for  fear 
Bat  when  I  looked,  Paris  had  raised  his  ar.u, 
And  I  beheld  great  Here's  angry  eyes. 
As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  cloud, 
And  I  was  left  alone  within  the  bower; 
And  from  that  time  to  this  I  am  alone, 
And  I  shall  be  alone  until  I  die. 


CENONE. 


115 


"  Yet,  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Fairest  —  why  fairest  wife  ?  am  I  not  fair  ? 
My  love  hath  told  me  so  a  thousand  times. 
Methinks  I  must  be  fair,  for  yesterday, 
When  I  past  by,  a  wild  and  wanton  pard, 
Eyed  like  the  evening  star,  with  playful  tail 
Crouched  fawning  in  the  weed.    Most  loving  is  she 
Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that  my  arms 
Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot  lips  prest 
Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick-falling  dew 
Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  Autumn  rains 
Flash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois. 

"  0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
They  came,  they  cut  away  my  tallest  pines, 
My  dark  tall  pines,  that  plumed  the  craggy  ledge 
High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all  between 
The  sno^vy  peak  and  snow-white  cataract 
Fostered  the  callow  eaglet  —  from  beneath 
Whose  thick  mysterious  boughs  in  the  dark  morn 
The  panther's  roar  came  muffled,  while  I  sat 
Low  in  the  valley.     Never,  never  more 
Shall  lone  CEnone  see  the  iiiorning  mist 
Sweep  through  them  ;  never  see  them  overlaid 


116 


With  narrow  moon-lit  slips  of  silver  cloud, 
Between  the  loud  stream  and  the  trembling  stars. 

"  0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  wish  that  somewhere  in  the  ruined  folds, 
Among  the  fragments  tumbled  from  the  glens, 
Or  the  dry  thickets,  I  could  meet  with  her. 
The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  came 
Into  the  fair  Pele'ian  banquet-hall, 
And  cast  the  golden  fruit  upon  the  board. 
And  bred  this  change  ;  that  I  might  speak  my  mind. 
And  tell  her  to  her  face  how  much  I  hate 
Her  presence,  hated  both  of  Gods  and  men. 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hath  he  not  sworn  his  love  a  thousand  times. 
In  this  green  valley,  under  this  green  hill, 
Even  on  this  hand,  and  sitting  on  this  stone  ? 
Sealed  it  with  kisses  ?  watered  it  with  tears  ? 
O  happy  tears,  and  how  unlike  to  these  ! 
O  happy  Heaven,  how  canst  thou  see  my  face  ? 
O  happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear  my  weight  ? 
O  death,  death,  death,  thou  ever-floating  cloud. 
There  are  enough  unhappy  on  this  earth  ; 


fENONE.  117 

Pass  by  the  happy  souls,  that  love  to  live  : 
I  pray  thee  pass  before  my  light  of  life, 
And  shadow  all  my  soul,  that  I  may  die. 
Thou  weighest  heavy  on  the  heart  w^ithin, 
Weigh  heavy  on  my  eyelids  :  let  me  die. 

"  0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  will  not  die  alone,  for  fiery  thoughts 
Do  shape  themselves  within  me  more  and  more, 
Whereof  I  catch  the  issue,  as  I  hear 
Dead  sounds  at  night  come  from  the  inmost  hills, 
Like  footsteps  upon  wool.     I  dimly  see 
My  far-off  doubtful  purpose,  as  a  mother 
Conjectures  of  the  features  of  her  child 
Ere  it  is  born  :  her  child  I  —  a  shudder  comes 
Across  me  :  never  child  be  born  of  me, 
Unblest,  to  vex  me  with  his  father's  eyes ! 

"  0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hear  me,  O  earth.     I  will  not  die  alone. 
Lest  their  shrill  happy  laughter  come  to  me 
Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road  of  Death 
Uncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 
With  the  Greek  woman.     I  will  rise  and  ffo 


118 


Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars  come  forth 
Talk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,  for  she  says 
A  fire  dances  before  her,  and  a  sound 
Rings  ever  in  her  ears  of  armed  men. 
What  this  may  be  I  know  not,  but  I  know 
That,  wheresoe'er  I  am  by  night  and  day, 
All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning  fire." 


THE  SISTERS 


We  were  two  daughters  of  one  race  : 
She  was  the  fairest  in  the  face  : 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and  tree. 
They  were  together,  and  she  fell ; 
Therefore  revenge  became  me  well. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 


She  died :  she  went  to  burning  flame  : 
She  mixed  her  ancient  blood  with  shame. 

The  wind  is  howling  in  turret  and  tree. 
Whole  weeks  and  months,  and  early  and  late. 
To  win  his  love  I  lay  in  wait. 

0  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 


120  THE   SISTERS. 


in. 


1  made  a  feast ;  I  bade  him  come  : 
I  won  his  love,  I  brought  him  home. 

The  wind  is  roaring  in  turret  and  tree. 
And  after  supper,  on  a  bed, 
Upon  my  lap  he  laid  his  head : 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 


IV. 

I  kissed  his  eyelids  into  rest : 
His  ruddy  cheek  upon  my  breast. 

The  wind  is  raging  in  turret  and  tree. 
I  hated  him  with  the  hate  of  hell, 
But  I  loved  his  beauty  passing  well. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 


V. 

I  rose  up  in  the  silent  night : 

I  made  my  dagger  sharp  and  bright. 

The  wind  is  raving  in  turret  and  tree. 
As  half-asleep  his  breath  he  drew. 
Three  times  I  stabbed  him  through  and  througli 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 


THE    SISTEKS.  121 


VI. 


I  curled  and  combed  his  comely  head, 
He  looked  so  grand  when  he  was  dead. 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and  tree. 
I  wrapt  his  body  in  the  sheet, 
And  laid  him  at  his  mother's  feet. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  sec  ! 
,.  I.  9 


TO 

WITH     THE     FOLLOWINa     FOBM. 


I  SEND  you  here  a  sort  of  allegory, 

(For  you  will  understand  it,)  of  a  soul, 

A  sinful  soul  possessed  of  many  gifts, 

A  spacious  garden  full  of  flowering  weeds, 

A  glorious  Devil,  large  in  heart  and  brain. 

That  did  love  Beauty  only,  (Beauty  seen 

In  all  varieties  of  mould  and  mind,) 

And  Knowledge  for  its  beauty  ;  or  if  Good. 

Good  only  for  its  beauty,  seeing  not 

That  Beauty,  Good,  and  Knowledge,  are  three  sistet»< 

That  dote  upon  each  other,  friends  to  man, 

Living  together  under  the  same  roof, 

And  never  can  be  sundered  without  tears. 


THE    PALACE    OF    ART.  123 

And  he  that  shuts  liove  out,  in  turn  shall  be 
Shut  out  from  Love,  and  on  her  threshold  lie 
Howling  in  outer  darkness.     Not  for  this 
Was  common  clay  ta'en  from  the  common  earth, 
Moulded  by  God,  and  tempered  with  the  tears 
Of  angels  to  the  perfect  shape  of  man. 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


I  BUILT  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure-house. 

Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell. 
I  said,  "  0  Soul,  make  merry  and  carouse, 
Dear  soul,  for  all  is  well." 

A  huge  crag-platform,  smooth  as  buniislud  brass, 

I  chose.     The  ranged  ramparts  bright 
From  level  meadow-bases  of  deep  grass 
Suddenly  scaled  the  light. 


124  THE    PALACE    OF    ART. 

Thereon  I  built  it  firm.     Of  ledge  or  shelf 

The  rock  rose  clear,  or  winding  stair. 
My  soul  would  live  alone  unto  herself 
In  her  high  palace  there. 

And  "  while  the  world  runs  round  and  round,"  I  said, 

"  Reign  thou  apart,  a  quiet  king, 
Still  as,  while  Saturn  whirls,  his  steadfast  shade 
Sleeps  on  his  luminous  ring." 

To  which  my  soul  made  answer  readily : 

"  Trust  me,  in  bliss  I  shall  abide 
In  this  great  mansion,  that  is  built  for  me, 
So  royal-rich  and  wide." 

*  *  *  # 

•  *  *  # 

Four  courts  I  made,  East  and  West,  South  and  North, 

In  each  a  squared  lawn,  wherefrom 
The  golden  gorge  of  dragons  spouted  forth 
A  flood  of  fountain-foam. 

And  roimd  the  cool  green  courts  there  ran  a  row 

Of  cloisters,  branched  like  mighty  woods. 
Echoing  all  night  to  that  sonorous  flow 
Of  spouted  fountain-floods. 


THE    PALACE    OF    ART.  125 

And  round  the  roofs  a  gilded  gallery 

That  lent  broad  verge  to  distant  lands, 
Far  as  the  wild  swan  wings,  to  where  the  sky 
Dipt  down  to  sea  and  sands. 

From  those  four  jets  four  currents  in  one  swell 

Across  the  mountain  streamed  below 
In  misty  folds,  that  floating  as  they  fell 
Lit  up  a  torrent-blow. 

And  high  on  every  peak  a  statue  seemed 

To  hang  on  tiptoe,  tossing  up 
A  cloud  of  incense  of  all  odor  steamed 
From  out  a  golden  cup. 

So  that  she  thought,  "  And  who  shall  gaze  upon 

My  palace  with  unblinded  eyes. 
While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the  sun, 
And  that  sweet  incense  rise  ?  " 

For  that  sweet  incense  rose  and  never  failed, 

And,  while  day  sank  or  mounted  higher, 
The  light  aerial  gallery,  golden-railed, 
Burnt  like  a  fringe  of  fire. 


126  THE    PALACE    OF    ART. 

Likewise  the  deep-set  windows,  stained  and  trared. 

Would  seem  slow-flaming  crimson  fires 
From  shadowed  grots  of  arches  interlaced, 
And  tipt  with  frost-like  spires. 

*  *  #  * 

#  *  *  # 
Full  of  long-sounding  corridors  it  was, 

That  over-vaulted  grateful  gloom, 

Through  which  the  livelong  day  my  soul  did  pass, 

Well-pleased,  from  room  to  room. 

Full  of  great  rooms  and  small  the  palace  stood. 

All  various,  each  a  perfect  whole 

From  living  Nature,  fit  for  every  mood 

And  change  of  my  still  soul. 

For  some  were  hung  with  arras  green  and  blue. 

Showing  a  gaudy  siynmer-morn, 
Where  with  puffed  cheek  the  belted  hunter  blew 
His  wreathed  bugle-horn. 

One  seemed  all  dark  and  red  —  a  tract  of  sand. 

And  some  one  pacing  there  alone, 
Who  paced  forever  in  a  glimmering  land. 
Lit  with  a  low  large  moon. 


THE    PALACE    OF    ART.  127 

One  showed  an  iron  coast  and  angry  waves. 

You  seemed  to  hear  them  climb  and  fall 
And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellowing  caves, 
Beneath  the  windy  wall. 

And  one,  a  full-fed  river  winding  slow 

By  herds  upon  an  endless  plain. 
The  ragged  rims  of  thunder  brooding  low, 
With  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 

And  one,  the  reapers  at  their  sultry  toil. 

In  front  they  bound  the  sheaves.     Behind 
Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in  oil, 
And  hoary  to  the  wind. 

And  one,  a  foreground  black  with  stones  and  slags, 

Beyond  a  line  of  heights,  and  higher 
All  barred  with  long  white  cloud  the  scornful  crags, 
And  highest,  snow  and  fire. 

And  one,  an  English  home  —  gray  twilight  poured 

On  dewy  pastures,  dewy  trees, 
Softer  than  sleep  —  all  things  in  order  stored, 
A  haunt  of  ancient  Peace. 


12S  THE    PALACE    OF   AET. 

Nor  these  alone,  but  every  landscape  fair, 

As  fit  for  every  mood  of  mind, 

Or  gay,  or  grave,  or  sweet,  or  stem,  was  there, 

Not  less  than  truth  designed. 

«  «  •  * 

*  *  *  * 

Or  the  maid-mother  by  a  crucifix. 

In  tracts  of  pasture  sunny-warm. 

Beneath  branch-work  of  costly  sardonyx 

Sat  smiling,  babe  in  arm. 

Or  in  a  clear-walled  city  on  the  sea. 
Near  gilded  organ-pipes,  her  hair 
Wound  with  white  roses,  slept  St.  Cecily ; 
An  angel  looked  at  her. 

Or  thronging  all  one  porch  of  Paradise, 

A  group  of  Houris  bowed  to  see 
The  dying  Islamite,  with  hands  and  eyes 
That  said,  we  wait  for  thee. 

Or  mythic  IJther's  deeply-wounded  son 

In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  gxeens 
Lay,  dozing  in  the  vale  of  Avalon, 
And  watched  by  weeping  queens. 


THE    PALACE    OF    AKT.  129 

Or  hollowing  one  hand  against  his  ear, 

To  list  a  footfall,  ere  he  saw 
The  wood-nymph,  stayed  the  Tuscan  king  to  hear 
Of  wisdom  and  of  law. 

Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrailed, 

And  many  a  tract  of  palm  and  rice, 
The  throne  of  Indian  Cama  slowly  sailed 
A  summer  fanned  with  spice. 

Or  sweet  Europa's  mantle  blew  unclasped 
From  off  her  shoulder  backward  borne : 
From  one  hand  drooped  a  crocus :  one  hand  grasped 
The  mild  bull's  golden  horn. 

Or  else  flushed  Ganymede,  his  rosy  thigh 

Half-buried  in  the  Eagle's  down, 
Sole  as  a  flying  star  shot  through  the  sky 
Above  the  pillared  town. 

Nor  these  alone  :  but  every  legend  fair 
Which  the  supreme  Caucasian  mind 
Carved  out  of  Nature  for  itself,  was  there, 

Not  less  than  life,  designed. 

*  «  #  * 

*  *  «  « 


130  THE    PALACE    OF    ART, 

Then  in  the  towers  I  placed  great  bells  that  swunj^. 

Moved  of  themselves,  with  silver  sound ; 
And  with  choice  paintings  of  wise  men  I  hung 
The  royal  dais  round. 

For  there  was  Milton  like  a  seraph  strong, 
Beside  him  Shakspeare  bland  and  mild ; 
And  there  the  world-worn  Dante  grasped  his  song 
And  somewhat  grimly  smiled. 

And  there  the  Ionian  father  of  the  rest ; 

A  million  wrinkles  carved  his  skin ; 
A  hundred  winters  snowed  upon  his  breast, 
From  cheek  and  throat  and  chin. 

Above,  the  fair  hall-ceiling  stately-set 

Many  an  arch  high  up  did  lift. 
And  angels  rising  and  descending  met 
With  interchange  of  gift. 

Below  was  all  mosaic  choicely  planned 

With  cycles  of  the  human  tale 
Of  this  wide  world,  the  times  of  every  land 
So  wrought,  they  will  not  fail. 


THE    PALACE    OF    ART.  131 

The  people  here,  a  beast  of  burden  slow, 

Toiled  onward,  pricked  with  goads  and  stings  ; 
Here  played,  a  tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 
The  heads  and  crowns  of  kings ; 

Here  rose,  an  athlete,  strong  to  break  or  bind 

All  force  in  bonds  that  might  endure. 
And  here  once  more  like  some  sick  man  declined. 
And  trusted  any  cure. 

But  over  these  she  trod :  and  those  great  bells 

Began  to  chime.     She  took  her  throne  : 
She  sat  betwixt  the  shining  Oriels, 
To  sing  her  songs  alone. 

And  through  the  topmost  Oriels'  colored  flame 

Two  godlike  faces  gazed  below : 
Plato  the  wise,  and  large-browed  Verulam, 
The  first  of  those  who  know. 

And  all  those  names,  that  in  their  motion  were 

Full-welling  fountain-heads  of  change, 
Betwixt  the  slender  shafts  were  blazoned  fair 
In  diverse  raiment  strange  : 


132  THE   PALACE    OF   ART. 

Through  which  the  lights,  rose,  amber,  emerald,  blue, 

Flushed  in  her  temples  and  her  eyes. 
And  from  her  lips,  as  mom  from  Memnon,  drew 
Rivers  of  melodies. 

No  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 

Her  low  preamble  all  alone, 
IMore  than  my  soul  to  hear  her  echoed  song 
Throb  through  the  ribbed  stone ; 

Singing  and  murmuring  in  her  feastful  mirth, 

Joying  to  feel  herself  alive. 
Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible  earth, 
Lord  of  the  senses  five ; 

Communing  with  herself:  "  All  these  are  mine, 

And  let  the  world  have  peace  or  wars, 
'T  is  one  to  me."     She  —  when  young  night  divine 
Crowned  dying  day  with  stars, 

Making  sweet  close  of  his  delicious  toils  — 

Lit  light  in  wreaths  and  anadems. 
And  pure  quintessences  of  precious  oils 
In  hollowed  moons  of  gems, 


THE    PALACE    OF   ART. 


133 


To  mimic  heaven ;  and  clapt  her  hands  and  cried, 

"  I  marvel  if  my  still  delight 
In  this  great  house  so  royal-rich,  and  wide, 
Be  flattered  to  the  height. 

"  From  shape  to  shape  at  first  within  the  womb 

The  brain  is  modelled,"  she  began, 
"  And  through  all  phases  of  all  thought  I  come 
Into  the  perfect  man. 

"  All  Nature  widens  upward.     Evermore 

The  simpler  essence  lower  lies  : 
More  complex  is  more  perfect,  owning  more 
Discourse,  more  widely  wise." 

Then  of  the  moral  instinct  would  she  prate, 

And  of  the  rising  from  the  dead, 
As  hers  by  right  of  full-accomplished  Fate ; 
And  at  the  last  she  said  : 

•'  I  take  possession  of  men's  minds  and  deeds 

I  live  in  all  things  great  and  small. 
[  sit  apart  holding  no  forms  of  creeds, 
But  contemplating  all." 


134  THE    PALACE    OF    ART. 

Full  oft  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth 

Flashed  through  her  as  she  sat  alone, 
But  not  the  less  held  she  her  solemn  mirth, 
And  intellectual  throne 

Of  full-sphered  contemplation.     So  three  years 

She  throve,  but  on  the  fourth  she  fell. 
Like  Herod,  when  the  shout  was  in  his  ears, 
Struck  through  with  pangs  of  hell. 

Lest  she  should  fail  and  perish  utterly, 

God,  before  whom  ever  lie  bare 
The  abysmal  deeps  of  Personality, 
Plagued  her  with  sore  despair. 

When  she  would  think,  where'er  she  turned  her  sight, 

The  airy  hand  confusion  wrought. 
Wrote  "  Mene,  mene,"  and  divided  quite 
The  kingdom  of  her  thought. 

Deep  dread  and  loathing  of  her  solitude 

Fell  on  her,  from  which  mood  was  bom 
Scorn  of  herself ;  again,  from  out  that  mood 
liaughter  at  her  self-scorn. 


THE    PALACE    OF    ART.  135 

"  What !  is  not  this  my  place  of  strength,"  she  said. 

"  My  spacious  mansion  built  for  me, 
Whereof  the  strong  foundation-stones  were  laid 
Since  my  first  memory  ?  " 

But  in  dark  corners  of  her  palace  stood 

Uncertain  shapes  ;  and  unawares 
On  white-eyed  phantasms  weeping  tears  of  blood. 
And  horrible  nightmares, 

And  hollow  shades  enclosing  hearts  of  flame, 

And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all, 
On  corpses  three-months-old  at  noon  she  came, 
That  stood  against  the  wall. 

A  spot  of  dull  stagnation,  without  light 

Or  power  of  movement,  seemed  my  soul. 
Mid  onward-sloping  motions  infinite 
Making  for  one  sure  goal. 

A  still  salt  pool,  locked  in  with  bars  of  sand ; 

Left  on  the  shore  ;  that  hears  all  night 
The  plunging  seas  draw  backward  trom  the  land 
Their  moon-led  waters  white. 


136  THE    PALACE    OF    ART. 

A  Star  that  with  the  choral  starry  dance 

Joined  not,  but  stood,  and  standing  saw 
The  hollow  orb  of  moving  Circumstance 
Rolled  round  by  one  fixed  law. 

Back  on  herself  her  serpent  pride  had  curled. 
"  No  voice,"  she  shrieked  in  that  lone  hall, 
*'  No  voice  breaks  through  the  stillness  of  this  world  : 
One  deep,  deep  silence  all !  " 

She,  mouldering  with  the  dull  earth's  mouldering  sod, 

Inwrapt  tenfold  in  slothful  shame, 
Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God, 
Lost  to  her  place  and  name ; 

And  death  and  life  she  hated  equally, 

And  nothing  saw,  for  her  despair, 
But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  eternity, 
No  comfort  anywhere ; 

Remaining  utterly  confused  with  fears, 
And  ever  worse  with  growing  time. 
And  ever  unrelieved  by  dismal  tears, 
And  all  alone  in  crime  : 


THE    PALACE    OF    ART.  137 

Shut  up  as  in  a  crumbling  tomb,  girt  round 

With  blackness  as  a  solid  wall, 
Far  off  she  seemed  to  hear  the  dully  sound 
Of  human  footsteps  fall. 

As  in  strange  lands  a  traveller  walking  slow, 

In  doubt  and  great  perplexity, 
A  little  before  moon-rise  hears  the  low 
Moan  of  an  unknown  sea  ; 

And  knows  not  if  it  be  thunder  or  a  sound 
Of  stones  thrown  down,  or  one  deep  cry 
Of  great  wild  beasts  ;  then  thinketh,  "  I  have  founci 
A  new  land,  but  I  die." 

She  howled  aloud,  "  I  am  on  fire  within. 

There  comes  no  murmur  of  reply. 
What  is  it  that  will  take  away  my  sin. 
And  save  me  lest  I  die  ? " 

So  when  four  years  were  wholly  finished, 

She  threw  her  royal  robes  away. 
"  Make  me  a  cottage  in  the  vale,"  she  said, 
"  Where  I  may  mourn  and  pray. 

VOL.  I.  10 


138  THE    PALACE    OF    ART. 

"  Yet  pull  not  down  my  palace  towers,  that  are 

So  lightly,  beautifully  built : 
Perchance  I  may  return  with  others  there 
When  I  have  purged  my  guilt." 


LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE, 


Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown  ; 
You  thought  to  break  a  country  heart 

For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 
At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 

I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retired : 
The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earls, 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your  name ; 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 

Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I  came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 

A  heart  that  dotes  on  truer  charms. 
A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 

Is  worth  a  hundred  coats-of-arms. 


140  LADY    CLARA    VERB    DE    VERE. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 
For  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love, 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  strange  memories  in  my  head. 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have  blown 

Since  I  beheld  young  Laurence  dead. 
0  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies  : 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be  ; 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 

Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother's  view, 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you. 
Indeed,  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear ; 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 

Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vero 


LADY  CLARA  VERB  DE  VERE,  141 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall : 
The  gxiilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door  : 

You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to  gal' 
You  held  your  course  without  remorse, 

To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth, 
And,  last,  you  fixed  a  vacant  stare. 

And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trast  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us  bent 
The  grand  old  gardener  and  his  wife 

Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 
Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

'T  is  only  noble  to  be  good. 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets,  « 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

I  know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere  : 

You  pine  among  your  halls  and  towers  , 
The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 

Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 
In  glowing  health,  with  boundless  wealth, 

But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease. 
You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time, 

You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as  these 


142  LADY  CLAEA  VERB  DE  VERE. 

Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  Time  be  heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate, 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands  ? 
0  !  teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read, 

Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew. 
Pray  Heaven  for  a  human  heart, 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 


THE   MAY    QUEEN 


I. 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother 
dear; 

To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New- 
year; 

Of  all  the  glad  New-year,  mother,  the  maddest,  men-iest 
day; 

For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 
Queen  o'  the  May. 

n. 

There's  many  a  black,  black  eye,  they  say,  but  none  so 

bright  as  mine  ; 
There  's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there 's  Kate  and  Caroline ; 
But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the  land,  they  say ; 
So  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 

Queen  o'  the  May. 


144  THE    MAY    QUEEN. 

m. 

I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I  shall  nevei 

wake, 
tf  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins  to  break : 
But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  buds  and  garlands 

gay, 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 

Queen  o'  the  May. 


IV. 

As  I  came  up  the  valley,  whom  think  ye  should  I  see. 
But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath  the  hazel-tree  ^ 
He  thought   of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I  gave  him 

yesterday,  — 
But  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 

Queen  o'  the  May. 


V. 

He  thought  I  was  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I  was  all  in  white, 
And  I  ran  by  hun  without  speaking,  like  a  flash  of  ligiit. 
They  call  me  cniel -hearted,  but  I  care  not  what  they  say. 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 
Queen  o'  the  May. 


THE    MAY    QUEEN.  145 

VI. 

They  say  he 's  dying  all  for  love,  but  that  can  never  be  . 
They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother  —  what  is  that 

to  me? 
There  's  many  a  bolder  lad  'ill  woo  me  any  summer  day, 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 

Queen  o'  the  May. 

VII. 

Little  Effie  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green, 
And  you  '11  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the 

Queen : 
For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  'ill  come  from  far 

away. 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 

Queen  o'  the  May. 

vm. 
The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  woven  its  wavy 

bowers. 
And   by   the   meadow-trenches   blow  the   faint  sweet 

cuckoo-flowers ; 
And  the  wild  marsh-marigold  shines  like  fire  in  swamps 

and  hollows  gray. 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 

Queen  o'  the  May. 


146  THE    MAY    QUEEN. 

tx. 

The  night-winds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the  meadow- 
grass. 

And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as 
they  pass ; 

There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  whole  of  the  livelong 
day. 

And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 
Queen  o'  the  May. 

X. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  'ill  be  fresh  and  green  and  still, 
And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill. 
And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  'ill  merrily  glance 

and  play, 
For  1  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  'm  to  be 

Queen  o'  the  May. 

XI. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early, 

mother  dear. 
To-morrow  'ill  be   the   happiest  time   of  all    the  glad 

New-year : 
To-morrow  'ill  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest,  merriest 

day, 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I  m  to  be 

Queen  o'  the  May. 


NEW   YEAR'S   EVE. 


If  you  're  waking  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother 

dear, 
For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year. 
It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I  shall  ever  see, 
Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i'  the  mould,  and  think  no 

more  of  me. 

n. 

To-night  I  saw  the  sun  set :  he  set  and  left  behind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my  peace 

of  mind  ; 
And  the  New-year's  coming  up,  mother,  but  I  shall 

never  see 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 


148  NEW  yeae's  eve. 

m. 
Last  May  we  made  a   crown  of   flowers  :   we  had  a 

merry  day ; 
Beneath  the   hawthorn   on   the   green   they  made  me 

Queen  of  May ; 
And  we  danced  about  the  May -pole  and  in  the  hazel 

copse, 
Till   Charles's   Wain  came   out  above  the   tall  white 

chimney-tops. 

rv. 

There  's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills  :  the  frost  is  on  the 

pane : 
I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again : 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come  out  on 

high: 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 

V. 

The  building  rook  'ill  caw  from  the  windy  tall  elm-tree, 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea, 

And  the  swallow  'ill  come  back  again  with  summer  o'er 

the  wave, 
But  I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  mouldering 

grave. 


NEW  year's  eve.  149 

VI. 

Upon   the  chancel-casement,  and   upon  that  grave  of 

mine, 
In  the  early,  early  morning  the  summer  sun  'ill  shine, 
Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  upon  the  hill. 
When  you  are  warm-asleep,  mother,  and  all  the  world 

is  still. 

vn. 
When   the   flowers   come   again,  mother,   beneath   the 

waning  light 
You  '11  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at 

night ; 
When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow 

cool 
On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush  in 

the  pool. 

VIII. 

Vou  '11  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the  hawthorn 

shade, 
A  nd  you  '11  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I  am 

lowly  laid. 
I  shall  not  forget  you,  mother,  I  shall  hear  you  when 

you  pass. 
With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  pleasani 

grass. 


150  NEW  year's  eve. 

IX. 

I  have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you  '11  forgive  me 

now; 
You  '11  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  upon  my  cheek  and 

brow; 
Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let  your  grief  be  wild, 
You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother,  you  have  another 

child. 

X. 

If  I  can  I  '11  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting- 
place  ; 

Though  you  '11  not  see  me,  mother,  I  shall  look  upon 
your  face ; 

Though  I  cannot  speak  a  word,  I  shall  hearken  what  you 
say, 

And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you  think  I  'm  far 
away. 

XI. 

Good-night,  good-night,  when  I  have   said   good -night 

forevermore. 
And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the 

door; 
Don  't  let  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  growing 

green : 
She  '11  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  ever  I  have  been. 


NEW  yeak's  eve.  151 

xn. 
She  '11  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the  granary  floor : 
Let  her  take  'em :  they  are  hers  :  I  shall  never  garden 

more  : 
But   tell   her,  when  I  'm  gone,  to  train  the  rose-bush 

that  I  set 
About  the  parlor-window  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 

xni. 
Good-night,  sweet  mother:   call  me  before  the  day  is 

bom. 
All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at  mom ; 
But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year, 
So,  if  you  're  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother 

dear. 


CONCLUSION. 


I. 

I  THOUGHT  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I  am ; 
And  in  the  fields  all  round  I  hear  the  bleating  of  tlie 

lamb. 
How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year ! 
To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the  violet 's 

here. 

n. 

0  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the  skies, 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to  me  that  cannot 

rise, 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers  that 

blow. 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me  that  long  to  g'o. 


CONCLUSION.  153 

m. 

It  seemed  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the  blessed 

sun, 
A.nd  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay;  and  yet.  His  will  be 

done ! 
But  still  I  think  it  can't  be  long  before  I  find  release ; 
And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me  words 

of  peace, 

rv. 
0  blessings  on  his  kindly  voice  and  on  his  silver  hair ! 
And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet  me 

there ! 
O  blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on  his  silver  head  ! 
A  thousand  times  I  blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my  bid. 

V. 

He  showed  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  taught  me  all  the 

sin. 
Now,  though  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there  's  One 

will  let  me  in : 
Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again,  if  that  could 

be, 
For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  fo"  me. 

VOL.   I.  11 


l54 


CONCLUSION. 


VT. 

I  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death-watch 

beat. 
There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  the  night  and  morning 

meet : 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  m 

mine, 
And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell  the  sign. 

VII. 

All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  the  angels  call ; 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and .  the  dark  was 

over  all ; 
The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll, 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  them  call  my 

soul. 


Vlll. 

For  lying  broad  awake   I   thought  of  you  and   Effie 

dear; 
1  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no  longer  here  ; 
With  all  my  strength  I  prayed  for  both,  and  so  I  feh 

resigned, 
A  nd  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on  the  wind. 


CONCLUSION.  155 


JX. 


I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listened  in  my  bed. 
And  then   did   something  speak  to  me  —  I  know  noi 

what  was  said ; 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all  my 

mind, 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 

X. 

But  you  were  sleeping ;  and  I  said,  "  It 's  not  for  them  : 
it 's  mine." 

And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I  thought,  I  take  it  for  a 
sign. 

And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  window- 
bars. 

Then  seemed  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven  and  die  among 
the  stars. 

XI. 

So  now  I  think  my  time  is  near.     I  trust  it  is.     I  know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul  will  have 

to  go. 
And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go  to-day, 
But,  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I  am  past  away 


156  CONCLUSION. 

xn. 

And  say  to  Robin  a  kind  word,  and  tell  him  not  to  fret ; 
There  's  many  worthier  than  I  would  make  him  happy 

yet. 
If  I  had  lived  —  I  cannot  tell  —  I  might  have  been  his 

wife; 
But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with  my  desire 

of  life. 

yiii, 

0  look !  the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a 

glow; 
He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I  Icnow. 
And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light 

may  shine  — 
Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands  than  mine. 

xrv. 

O  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere  this  day  is 

done 
The  voice  that  now  is  speaking  may  be  beyond  the  sun — 
Forever  and  forever  with  those  just  souls  and  true  — 
And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan  ?  why  make  we 

such  ado  ? 


CONCLUSION.  157 

XV. 

Forever  and  forever,  all  in  a  blessed  home  — 

And    there    to   wait  a  little  while  till   you  and   Effie 

come  — 
To   lie   within   the   light  of  God,  as  1  lie  upon   your 

breast — 
And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary 

are  at  rest. 


THE    LOTOS-EATERS. 


I. 

"  Courage  !  "  he  said,  and  pointed  toward  the  land  ; 

"  This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shoreward  soon." 
In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land, 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did  swoon, 
Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a  weary  dream. 
Full-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the  moon  ; 
And  like  a  dowmward  smoke,  the  slender  stream 
Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall  did  seem. 

n. 

A  land  of  streams !  some,  like  a  downward  smoke, 

Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did  go  ; 

And  some  through  wavering  lights  and  shadows  bro\ve, 

Rolling  a  slumbrous  sheet  of  foam  below. 

They  saw  the  gleaming  nver  seaward  flow 

From  the  inner  land :  far  off,  three  mountain-tops. 


THE    LOTOS-EATERS.  159 

Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow, 

Stood  sunset-flushed :  and,  dewed  with  showery  drops, 

Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the  woven  copse. 

m. 

The  charmed  sunset  lingered  low  adown 

In  the  red  West :  through  mountain  clefts  the  dale 

Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 

Bordered  with  palm,  and  many  a  winding  vale 

And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galingale ; 

A  land  where  all  things  always  seemed  the  same ! 

And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces  pale, 

Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame. 

The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos-eaters  came. 


Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted  stem, 
Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof  they  gave 
To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them, 
And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the  wave 
Far,  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and  rave 
On  alien  shores ;  and  if  his  fellow  spake, 
His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the  grave  ; 
And  deep-asleep  he  seemed,  yet  all  awake. 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beatins:  heart  did  maki; 


160  THE    LOTOS-EATERS. 

V. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow  sand, 
Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the  shore ; 
And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Father-land, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave  ;  but  evermore 
Most  weary  seemed  the  sea,  weary  the  oar, 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam. 
Then  some  one  said,  "  We  will  return  no  more  ; " 
And  all  at  once  they  sang,  "  Our  island  home 
Is  far  beyond  the  wave ;  we  will  no  longer  roam." 


CHORIC  SONG. 


1. 

There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls 
Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass, 
Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between  walls 
Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleaming  pass ; 
Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies 
Than  tired  eyelids  upon  tired  eyes  ; 
Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from  the  blissful 
skies. 


THE    LOTOS-EATEKS.  161 

Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 

And  through  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 

And  in  the  stream  the  long-leaved  flowers  weep, 

And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy  hangs  in  sleep. 


Why  are  we  weighed  upon  with  heaviness. 

And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  distress. 

While  all  things  else  have  rest  from  weariness  ? 

All  things  have  rest :  why  should  we  toil  alone, 

We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things. 

And  make  perpetual  moan. 

Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown : 

Nor  ever  fold  our  wings, 

And  cease  from  wanderings. 

Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy  balm ; 

Nor  hearken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 

"  There  is  no  joy  but  calm !  " 

W  hy  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and  crown  of  th  ing  - 


Lo !  in  the  middle  of  the  wood. 

The  folded  leaf  is  wooed  from  out  the  bud 

With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 


162  THE    LOTOS-EATERS. 

Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no  care, 

Sun-steeped  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 

Nightly  dew-fed ;  and  turning  yellow 

Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 

Lo  !  sweetened  with  the  summer  light. 

The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over-mellow, 

Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 

All  its  allotted  length  of  days, 

The  flower  ripens  in  its  place, 

Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no  toil, 

Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 


Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 
Vaxilted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 
Death  is  the  end  of  life  ;  ah  !  why 
Should  life  all  labor  be  ? 
Let  us  alone.     Time  driveth  onward  fast, 
And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  diimb. 
Let  us  alone.     What  is  it  that  will  last  ? 
AU  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 
Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  Past. 
Let  us  alone.     What  pleasure  can  we  have 
To  war  with  evil  ?     Is  there  any  peace 
In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave  ? 


THE    LOTOS-EATERS.  163 

AIJ  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward  the  grave, 

In  silence  ripen,  fall  and  cease  : 

Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death  or  dreamful  ease  ! 

5. 

How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  downward  stream, 

With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 

Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream ! 

Ta  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber  light, 

Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush  on  the  height ; 

To  hear  each  other's  whispered  speech ; 

Eating  the  Lotos,  day  by  day. 

To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the  beach, 

And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy  spray : 

To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 

To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melancholy; 

To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in  memory, 

With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 

Heaped  over  with  a  mound  of  grass, 

Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an  urn  of  brass ! 


Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives, 
And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wives 


1*54  THE    LOTOS-F.A.TERS. 

And  their  warm  tears :  but  all  hath  suffered  change  ; 

For  surely  now  our  household  hearths  are  cold : 

Our  sons  inherit  us  :  our  looks  are  strange  : 

And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to  trouble  joy. 

Or  else  the  island  princes,  over-bold 

Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  minstrel  sings 

Before  them  of  the  ten-years'  war  in  Troy, 

And  our  great  deeds,  as  half-forgotten  things. 

Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle  ? 

Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 

The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile  : 

'T  is  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 

There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 

Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain. 

Long  labor  unto  aged  breath, 

Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  with  many  wars, 

And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on  the  pilot-stars. 


But,  propt  on  beds  of  amaranth  and  moly. 

How  sweet  (while  warm  airs  lull  us,  blowing  lowly,) 

With  half-dropt  eyelids  still, 

Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy, 

To  watch  the  long  bright  river  drawing  slowly 


THE    LOTOS-EATERS.  165 

His  waters  from  the  purple  hill  — 

To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 

Fi-om  cave  to  cave  through  the  thick-twined  vine  — 

To  hear  the  emerald-colored  water  falling 

Through  many  a  woven  acanthus-wreath  divine  ! 

Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  sparkling  brine, 

Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretched  out  beneath  the  pine, 

8. 

The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  flowery  peak  : 

The  Lotos  blows  by  every  winding  creek : 

All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with  mellower  tone : 

Through  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 

Round  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the  yellow  Lotos-dust 

is  blown. 
We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of  motion  we. 
Rolled  to  starboard,  rolled  to  larboard,  when  the  surge 

was  seething  free, 
Where  the  wallowing  monster  spouted  his  foam-foun- 
tains in  the  sea. 
Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with  an  equal  mind, 
in  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  lie  reclined 
On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  careless  of  mankind. 
For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the  bolts  are  hurled 


166  THE    LOTOS-EATERS. 

Far  below  them   in  the  valleys,  and   the   clouds   are 

lightly  curled 
Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with  the  gleaming 

world ; 
Wliere  they  smile  in  secret,  looking  over  wasted  lands, 
Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earthquake,  roaring  deeps 

and  fiery  sands, 
Clanging  fights,  and  flaming  towns,  and  sinking  ships, 

and  praying  hands. 
But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  centred  in  a  doleful 

song 
Steaming  up,  a  lamentation  and  an  ancient  tale  of  Avi-ong, 
Like  a  tale  of  little  meaning,  though  the  words  are  stronr ; 
Chanted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men  that  cleave  the  soil, 
Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  han'^est  with  enduring  toil. 
Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat,  and  wine  and  oil ; 
Till    they  perish  and   they  suffer  —  some,  't  is   whis- 
pered —  down  in  hell 
Suffer  endless  anguish,  others  in  Elysian  valleys  dwell, 
Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds  of  asphodel. 
Suiely,  surely,  slumber  is  more  sweet  than  toil,  the  shore 
Than  labor  in  the  deep  mid-ocean,  wind  and  wave  and 

oar; 
O  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not  wander  more. 


A   DREAM   OF   FAIR   WOMEN, 


1  READ,  before  my  eyelids  dropt  their  shade, 
"  The  Legend  of  Good  Women"  long  ago 

Sung  by  the  morning  star  of  song,  who  made 
His  music  heard  below  ; 


n. 


Dan  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose  sweet  breath 
Preluded  those  melodious  bursts,  that  fill 

The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
With  sounds  that  echo  still. 


III. 


And,  for  a  while,  the  knowledge  of  his  art 

Held  me  above  the  subject,  as  strong  gales 

Hold  swollen  clouds  from  raining,  though  my  heart, 
Brimful  of  those  wild  tales, 


16S  A    DREAM   OF  FAIB,    WOMEN. 


IV. 


Charged  both  mine  eyes  with  tears.     In  every  land 

I  saw,  wherever  light  illumineth, 
Beauty  and  anguish  walking  hand  in  hand 

The  downward  slope  to  aeath. 


V. 


Those  far-renowned  brides  of  ancient  song 

Peopled  the  hollow  dark,  like  burning  stars, 

And  I  heard  sounds  of  insult,  shame  and  wrong. 
And  trumpets  blown  for  wars ; 


VI. 


And  clattering  flints  battered  with  clanging  hoofs  ; 

And  I  saw  crowds  in  columned  sanctuaries  ; 
And  forms  that  passed  at  windows  and  on  roofs 

Of  marble  palaces ; 


vn. 


Corpses  across  the  threshold ;  heroes  tall 
Dislodging  pinnacle  and  parapet 

Upon  the  tortoise  creeping  to  the  wall ; 
Lancers  in  ambush  set ; 


A    DREAM    OF    FAIR   WOMEN.  169 


And  high  shrine-doors  burst  through  with  heated  blasts 
That  run  before  the  fluttering  tongues  of  fire ; 

White  surf  wind-scattered  over  sails  and  masts, 
And  ever  climbing  higher ; 

IX. 

Squadrons  and  squares  of  men  in  brazen  plates, 
Scaffolds,  still  sheets  of  water,  divers  woes. 

Ranges  of  glimmering  vaults  with  iron  grates. 
And  hushed  seraglios. 

X. 

So  shape  chased  shape  as  swift  as,  when  to  land 
Bluster  the  winds  and  tides  the  self-same  way, 

Crisp  foam-flakes  scud  along  the  level  sand, 
Tom  from  the  fringe  of  spray. 

XI. 

I  started  once,  or  seemed  to  start,  in  pain, 

Resolved  on  noble  things,  and  strove  to  speak, 

A.S  when  a  great  thought  strikes  along  the  brain. 
And  flushes  all  the  cheek. 


170  A    DREAM    OF    FAIE    WOMEN. 


zn. 

And  once  my  arm  was  lifted  to  hew  down 
A  cavalier  from  off  his  saddle-bow, 

That  bore  a  lady  from  a  leaguered  town  ; 
And  then,  I  know  not  how, 


All  those  sharp  fancies,  by  down-lapsing  thought 

Streamed  onward,  lost  their  edges,  and  did  creep 

Rolled  on  each  other,  rounded,  smoothed,  and  brought 
Into  the  gulfs  of  sleep. 

XIV. 

At  last  methought  that  I  had  wandered  far 

In  an  old  wood :  fresh-washed  in  coolest  dew. 

The  maiden  splendors  of  the  morning  star 
Shook  in  the  steadfast  blue, 

XV. 

Enormous  elm-tree  boles  did  stoop  and  lean 
Upon  the  dusky  brushwood  underneath 

Their  broad  curved  branches,  fledged  with  clearest  green 
New  from  its  silken  sheath. 


A    DREAM    OF    FAIR    WOMEN.  171 


The  dim  red  morn  had  died,  her  journey  done, 

And  with  dead  lips  smiled  at  the  twilight  plain. 

Half-fallen  across  the  threshold  of  the  sun. 
Never  to  rise  again. 


There  was  no  motion  in  the  dumb  dead  air, 
Not  any  song  of  bird  or  sound  of  rill ; 

Gross  darkness  of  the  inner  sepulchre 
Is  not  so  deadly  still 

xvm. 

As  that  wide  forest.     Growths  of  jasmine  turned 
Their  humid  arms  festooning  tree  to  tree. 

And  at  the  root  through  lush  green  grasses  burned 
The  red  anemone. 

xvs.. 

1  knew  the  flowers,  I  knew  the  leaves,  1  knew 
The  tearful  glimmer  of  the  languid  dawn 

On  those  long,  rank,  dark  wood-walks  drenched  in  dew 
Leadinsf  from  lawn  to  lawn. 


172  A    DREAM    OF    FAIR    WOMEN. 


zz. 

The  smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the  green, 

Poured  back  into  my  empty  soul  and  frame 

The  times  when  I  remember  to  have  been 
Joyful  and  free  from  blame. 

XXI. 

And  from  within  me  a  clear  under-tone 

Thrilled  through  mine  ears  in  that  unblissful  clime, 
"  Pass  freely  through !  the  wood  is  all  thine  own, 

Until  the  end  of  time." 

xxu. 

At  length  I  saw  a  lady  within  call, 

Stiller  than  chiselled  marble,  standing  there  ; 
A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 

And  most  divinely  fair. 

XXIII. 

Her  loveliness  \vith  shame  and  with  surprise 

Froze  my  swift  speech ;  she  turning  on  my  face 

The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal  eyes, 
Spcke  slowly  in  her  place. 


A    DREAM   OF    FAIR    WOMEN.  173 


XXIV. 


"  1  had  great  beauty :  ask  thou  not  my  name  : 
No  one  can  be  more  wise  than  destiny. 

Many  drew  swords  and  died.     Where'er  I  came 
I  brought  calamity." 


XXV. 

"  No  marvel,  sovereign  lady !  in  fair  field, 
Myself  for  such  a  face  had  boldly  died," 

1  answered  free,  and  turning  I  appealed 
To  one  that  stood  beside. 

XXVI. 

But  she,  with  sick  and  scornful  looks  averse, 

To  her  full  height  her  stately  stature  draws  ; 

"  My  youth,"  she  said,  "was  blasted  with  a  curse 
This  woman  was  the  cause. 


"  1  was  cut  off  from  hope  in  that  sad  place, 

Which  yet  to  name  my  spirit  loathes  and  fears 

My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  face  : 
I,  blinded  with  my  tears, 


174 


A    DREAM    OF    FAIR    WOMEN. 


XXV  111. 


"  Still  strove  to  speak :  my  voice  was  thick  with  sighs 
As  in  a  dream.     Dimly  I  could  descry 

The  stern  black-bearded  kings  with  wolfish  eyes, 
Waiting  to  see  me  die. 


XXIX. 

"  The  high  masts  flicker' d  as  they  lay  afloat ; 

The  crowds,  the  temples,  waver' d,  and  the  shore  ; 
The  bright  death  quiver'd  at  the  victim's  threat ; 

Touch'd  ;   and  I  knew  no  more." 

XXX. 

Whereto  the  other  with  a  downward  brow : 

"  I  would  the  white  cold  heavy-plunging  foam, 

Whirled  by  the  wind,  had  rolled  me  deep  below, 
Then  when  I  left  my  home." 

XXXI. 

Her  slow  full  words  sank  through  the  silence  drear, 
As  thunder-drops  fall  on  a  sleeping  sea  : 

Sudden  I  heard  a  voice  that  cried,  "  Come  here, 
That  I  may  look  on  thee." 


A    DREAM    OF    FAIR    WOMEN.  175 


XXXII. 

1  turning  saw,  throned  on  a  flowery  rise, 

One  sitting  on  a  crimson  scarf  unrolled ; 

A  queen  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold  black  eyes 
Brow-bound  with  burning  gold. 

XXXIII. 

She,  flashing  forth  a  haughty  smile,  began  : 

"  1  governed  men  by  change,  and  so  I  swayed 

All  moods.  'T  is  long  since  I  have  seen  a  man. 
Once,  like  the  moon,  I  made 

XXXIV. 

"  The  ever-shifting  currents  of  the  blood 
According  to  my  humor  ebb  and  flow. 

I  have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood : 
That  makes  my  only  woe. 

XXXV. 

"  Nay — yet  it  chafes  me  that  I  could  not  bend 
One  will;  nor  tame  and  tutor  with  mine  eye 

That  dull  cold-blooded  Csesar.  Prithee,  friend, 
Where  is  Mark  Antony  ? 


176  A    DREAM    OF    FAIR    WOMEN. 


XXXVI. 

"  The  man  my  lover,  with  whom  I  rode  sublime 
On  Fortune's  neck :  we  sat  as  God  by  God  : 

The  Nilus  would  have  risen  before  his  time 
And  flooded  at  our  nod. 

XXXVII. 

"  We  drank  the  Lybian  Sun  to  sleep,  and  lit 

Lamps  which  outburned  Canopus.     O  my  life 

In  Egypt !     O  the  dalliance  and  the  wit, 
The  flattery  and  the  strife, 

XXX  vm. 

"  And  the  wild  kiss,  when  fresh  from  war's  alarms, 
My  Hercules,  my  Roman  Antony, 

My  mailed  Bacchus  leapt  into  my  arms, 
Contented  there  to  die ! 


"  And  there,  he  died ;  and  when  I  heard  my  name 
Sighed  forth  with  life  I  would  not  brook  my  fear 

Of  the  other :  with  a  worm  I  balked  his  fame. 
What  else  was  left  ?  —  look  here !  " 


A    DREAM    OF    FAIR    WOMEN.  177 


XL. 


(With  that  she  tore  her  robe  apart,  and  half 
The  polished  argent  of  her  breast  to  sight 

Laid  bare.     Thereto  she  pointed  with  a  laugh, 
Showing  the  aspick's  bite :) 


XLI. 


"  I  died  a  Queen.  The  Roman  soldier  found 
Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my  brows, 

A  name  forever !  —  lying  robed  and  crowned, 
Worthy  a  Roman  spouse." 


XLn. 


Her  warbling  voice,  a  lyre  of  widest  range 

Struck  by  all  passion,  did  fall  down  and  glance 

From  tone  to  tone,  and  glided  through  all  change 
Of  liveliest  utterance. 


When  she  made  pause  I  knew  not  for  delight ; 

Because  with  sudden  motion  from  the  ground 
She  raised  her  piercing  orbs  and  filled  with  light 

The  interval  of  sound. 


178  A    DEEAM    OF    FAIR    WOMEN. 


Still  with  their  fires  Love  tipt  his  keenest  darts ; 

As  once  they  drew  into  two  burning  rings 
All  beams  of  Love,  melting  the  mighty  hearts 

Of  captains  and  of  kings. 

XLV. 

Slowly  my  sense  undazzled.     Then  I  heard 

A  noise  of  some  one  coming  through  the  lawn, 

And  singing  clearer  than  the  crested  bird, 
That  claps  his  wings  at  dawn. 


"  The  torrent  brooks  of  hallowed  Israel 

From  craggy  hollows  pouring,  late  and  soon, 

Sound  all  night  long,  in  falling  through  the  dell. 
Far-heard  beneath  the  moon. 


"  The  balmy  moon  of  blessed  Israel 

Floods  all  the  deep-blue  gloom  with  beams  divine 
All  night  the  splintered  crags  that  wall  the  dell 

With  spires  of  silver  shine." 


A    DREAM    OF    FAIR    WOMEN.  179 

XL  VIII. 

As  one  that  museth  where  broad  sunshine  laves 
The  lawn  by  some  cathedral,  through  the  door 

Hearing  the  holy  organ  rolling  waves 
Of  sound  on  roof  and  floor 


XLIX. 

Within,  and  anthem  sung,  is  charmed  and  tied 

To  where  he  stands,  — so  stood  I,  when  that  flow 

Of  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died 
To  save  her  father's  vow ; 


L. 

The  daughter  of  the  warrior  Gileadite, 

A  maiden  pure ;  as  when  she  went  along 

From  Mizpeh's  towered  gate  with  welcome  light. 
With  timbrel  and  with  song. 

LI. 

My  words  leapt  forth  :  "Heaven  heads  the  count  of  crimen 
With  that  wild  oath."     She  rendered  answer  high  : 

"  Not  so,  nor  once  alone ;  a  thousand  times 
I  would  be  born  and  die. 


50  A    DREAM    OF    FAIR    WOMEN. 

Ln. 

"  Single  I  grew,  like  some  green  plant,  whose  root 
Creeps  to  the  garden  water-pipes  beneath. 

Feeding  the  flower  :  but  ere  my  flower  to  fruit 
Changed,  I  was  ripe  for  death, 

Lin. 

"  My  God,  my  land,  my  father  —  these  did  move 
Me  from  my  bliss  of  life,  that  Nature  gave, 

Lowered  softly  with  a  threefold  chord  of  love 
Down  to  a  silent  grave. 

LIV 

"  And  I  went  mourning,  *  No  fair  Hebrew  boy 
Shall  smile  away  my  maiden  blame  among 

The  Hebrew  mothers,'  —  emptied  of  all  joy, 
Leaving  the  dance  and  song, 

LV. 

"  Leaving  the  olive-gardens  far  below, 

Leaving  the  promise  of  my  bridal  bower, 

The  valleys  of  grape-loaded  vines  that  glow 
Beneath  the  battled  tower. 


A    DREAM    OF    FAIR    WOMEN.  181 


LVI. 


"  The  light  white  cloud  swam  over  us.  Anon 
We  heard  the  lion  roaring  from  his  den  ; 

We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one  by  one, 
Or,  from  the  darkened  glen, 


LVII. 


"  Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying  flame, 
And  thunder  on  the  everlasting  hills. 

I  heard  Him,  for  He  spake,  and  grief  became 
A  solemn  scorn  of  ills. 


"  When  the  next  moon  was  rolled  into  the  sky, 
Strength  came  to  me  that  equalled  my  desire. 

How  beautiful  a  thing  it  was  to  die 
For  God  and  for  my  sire ! 


LIX. 

"  It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought  to  dwell, 
That  I  subdued  me  to  my  father's  will ; 

Because  the  kiss  he  gave  me,  ere  I  fell, 
Sweetens  the  spirit  still. 


182  A    DREAM    OF    FAIR    WOMEN. 

LX. 

"  Moreover,  it  is  written  that  my  race 

Hewed  Ammon,  hip  and  thigh,  from  Aroer 

On  Arnon  unto  Minneth."     Here  her  face 
Glowed,  as  I  looked  at  her. 


She  locked  her  lips :  she  left  me  where  I  stood  : 
"  Glory  to  God,"  she  sang,  and  past  afar, 

Thridding  the  sombre  boskage  of  the  wood. 
Toward  the  morning-star. 


Lxn. 

Losing  her  carol  I  stood  pensively. 

As  one  that  from  a  casement  leans  his  head, 
When  midnight  bells  cease  ringing  suddenly, 

And  the  old  year  is  dead. 


LXIII. 

"  Alas !  alas !  "  a  low  voice,  full  of  care, 

Murmured  beside  me  ;  "  Turn  and  look  on  me 

I  am  that  Rosamond,  whom  men  call  fair, 
If  what  I  was  I  be. 


A    DEEAM    OF    FAIR    WOMEN.  183 


"  Would  I  had  been  some  maiden  coarse  and  poor  ! 

O  me  !  that  I  should  ever  see  the  light ! 
Those  dragon  eyes  of  angered  Eleanor 

Do  hunt  me,  day  and  night." 


LXV. 

She  ceased  in  tears,  fallen  from  hope  and  trust : 

To  whom  the  Egyptian  :  "  O,  you  tamely  died  ! 

You  should  have  clung  to  Fulvia's  waist,  and  thrust 
The  dagger  through  her  side." 

LXVI. 

With  that  sharp  sound  the  white  dawn's  creeping  beams. 
Stolen  to  my  brain,  dissolved  the  mystery 

Of  folded  sleep.     The  captain  of  my  dreams 
Ruled  in  the  eastern  sky. 


Morn  broadened  on  the  borders  of  the  dark, 

Ere  1  saw  her  who  clasped  in  her  last  trance 

Her  murdered  father's  head,  or  Joan  of  Arc, 
A  light  of  ancient  France  ; 


184  A   DREAM   OF    FAIR    WOMEN. 

LXVin. 

Or  her,  who  knew  that  Love  can  vanquish  Death, 
Who  kneeling,  with  one  arm  about  her  king. 

Drew  forth  the  poison  with  her  balmy  breath. 
Sweet  as  new  buds  in  Spring. 

LXIX. 

No  memory  labors  longer  from  the  deep 

Gold-mines  of  thought  to  lift  the  hidden  ore 

That  glimpses,  moving  up,  than  I  from  sleep 
To  gather  and  tell  o'er 

LXX. 

Each  little  sound  and  sight.     With  what  dull  pain 
Compassed,  how  eagerly  I  sought  to  strike 

Into  that  wondrous  track  of  dreams  again  ! 
But  no  two  dreams  are  like. 

LXXI. 

As  when  a  soul  laments,  which  hath  been  blest, 
Desiring  what  is  mingled  with  past  years, 

In  yearnings  that  can  never  be  exprest 
By  signs  or  groans  or  tears  ; 


A    DREAM   OF    FAIR    WOMEN.  185 


Because  all  words,  though  culled  with  choicest  art. 

Failing  to  give  the  bitter  of  the  sweet, 
Wither  beneath  the  palate,  and  the  heart 

Faints,  faded  by  its  heat. 
roL.  I.  13 


MARGARET. 


O  SWEET  pale  Margaret, 

O  rare  pale  Margaret, 

WTiat  lit  your  eyes  with  tearful  power, 

Like  moonlight  on  a  falling  shower  ? 

Who  lent  you,  love,  your  mortal  dower 

Of  pensive  thought  and  aspect  pale, 

Your  melancholy,  sweet  and  frail 
As  perfume  of  the  cuckoo-flower  ? 
From  the  westward-winding  flood. 
From  the  evening-lighted  wood, 

From  all  things  outward  you  have  won 
A  tearful  grace,  as  though  you  stood 

Between  the  rainbow  and  the  sun. 

The  very  smile  before*  you  speak, 
That  dimples  your  transparent  cheek, 
Encircles  all  the  heart,  and  feedeth 
The  senses  with  a  still  delight 


MARGARET,  IS'7 

Of  dainty  sorrow  without  sound, 
Like  the  tender  amber  round, 
Which  the  moon  about  her  spreadeth, 
Moving  through  a  fleecy  night. 

You  love,  remaining  peacefully, 

To  hear  the  murmur  of  the  strife, 
But  enter  not  the  toil  of  life. 

Your  spirit  is  the  calmed  sea, 

Laid  by  the  tumult  of  the  fight. 

You  are  the  evening  star,  alway 

Remaining  betwixt  dark  and  bright  : 

Lulled  echoes  of  laborious  day 

Come  to  you,  gleams  of  mellow  light 
Float  by  you  on  the  verge  of  night. 

What  can  it  matter,  Margaret, 

What  songs  below  the  waning  stars 
The  lion-heart,  Plantagenet, 

Sang  looking  through  his  prison  bars  ? 
Exquisite  Margaret,  who  can  tell 
The  last  wild  thought  of  Chatelet, 
Just  ere  the  falling  axe  did  part 
The  burning  brain  from  the  true  heart, 
Even  in  her  sight  he  loved  so  well  ? 


188  MARGARET. 

A  fairy  shield  youi  Genius  made 

And  gave  you  on  your  natal  day 
Your  sorrow,  only  sorrow's  shade, 

Keeps  real  sorrow  far  away. 
You  move  not  in  such  solitudes, 

You  are  not  less  divine, 
But  more  human  in  your  moods. 

Than  your  twin-sister,  Adeline. 
Your  hair  is  darker,  and  your  eyes 

Touched  with  a  somewhat  darker  hue, 

And  less  aerially  blue, 

but  ever  trembling  through  the  dew 
Of  dainty-woful  sympathies. 

0  sweet  pale  Margaret, 
0  rare  pale  Margaret, 

Come  down,  come  down,  and  hear  me  speak  ; 

Tie  up  the  ringlets  on  your  cheek : 
The  sun  is  just  about  to  set. 
The  arching  limes  are  tall  and  shady, 

And  faint,  rainy  lights  are  seen. 
Moving  in  the  leavy  beech. 
Rise  from  the  feast  of  sorrow,  lady, 

Where  all  day  long  you  sit  between 
Joy  and  woe,  and  whisper  each. 


MARGARET.  189 

Or  only  look  across  the  lawn, 

Look  out  below  your  bower-eaves, 
Look  down,  and  let  your  blue  eyes  dawn 

Upon  me  through  the  jasmine-leaves. 


THE    BLACKBIRD. 


0  Blackbird  !  sing  me  something  well : 
While  all  the  neighbors  shoot  thee  round, 
I  keep  smooth  plats  of  fruitful  ground, 

Where  thou  may'st  warble,  eat  and  dwell. 

The  espaliers  and  the  standards  all 

Are  thine  ;  the  range  of  lawn  and  park : 
The  unnetted  blackhearts  ripen  dark, 

All  thine,  against  the  garden  wall. 

Yet,  though  I  spared  thee  kith  and  kin. 
Thy  sole  delight  is,  sitting  still, 
With  that  gold  dagger  of  thy  bill 

To  fret  the  summer  jennetin. 

A  golden  bill !  the  silver  tongue, 

Cold  February  loved,  is  dry : 

Plenty  corrupts  the  melody 
That  made  thee  famous  once,  when  young  : 


THE    BLACKBIRD.  191 

And  in  the  sultry  garden-squares, 

Now  thy  flute-notes  are  changed  to  coarse, 
I  hear  thee  not  at  all,  or  hoarse 

As  when  a  hawker  hawks  his  wares. 

Take  warning  !  he  that  will  not  sing 
While  yon  sun  prospers  in  the  blue, 
Shall  sing  for  want,  ere  leaves  are  new, 

Caught  in  the  frozen  palms  of  Spring. 


DEATH   OF   THE    OLD    YEAR. 


Fttll  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 
And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sighing 
Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 
For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 
Old  year,  you  must  not  die ; 
You  came  to  us  so  readily, 
You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

n. 

He  lieth  still :  he  doth  not  move  : 

He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  hath  no  other  life  above. 

He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true  true-love, 

And  the  New-year  will  take  'em  away. 


THE  DEATH  01-  THE  OLD  YEAR.         193 

Old  year,  you  must  not  go  ; 
So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us, 
Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us, 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 


He  frothed  his  bumpers  to  the  brim ; 
A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 
But  though  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 
And  though  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him. 
He  was  a  friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die  ; 

We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 

I  've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 

Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

rv. 
He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest. 
But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er. 
To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 
But  he  '11  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my  friend, 

And  the  New-year,  blithe  and  bold,  my  friend, 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 


194         THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 
V. 

How  hard  he  breathes  !  over  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro  : 
The  cricket  chirps :  the  light  bums  low  : 
'T  is  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands,  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we  '11  dearly  rue  for  you : 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  ? 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

VI. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 
Alack  !  our  friend  is  gone. 
Close  up  his  eyes  :  tie  up  his  chin  : 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone. 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There 's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend. 

And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 

A  new  face  at  the  door. 


To  J.   S. 


The  wind,  that  beats  the  mountain,  blows 
More  softly  round  the  open  wold, 

And  gently  comes  the  world  to  those 
That  are  cast  in  g-entle  mould. 


And  me  this  knowledge  bolder  made, 
Or  else  I  had  not  dared  to  flow 

In  these  words  toward  you,  and  invade 
Even  with  a  verse  your  holy  woe. 

HI. 

'T  is  strange  that  those  we  lean  on  most. 

Those  in  whose  laps  our  limbs  are  nurseJ. 

Fall  into  shadow,  soonest  lost : 

Those  we  love  first  are  taken  first. 


196  TO  J.  s. 


IV. 


God  gives  us  love.     Something  to  love 

He  lends  us ;  but,  when  love  is  grown 

To  ripeness,  that  on  which  it  throve 
Falls  off,  and  love  is  left  alone. 

V. 

This  is  the  curse  of  time.     Alas  ! 

In  grief  I  am  not  all  unlearned ; 
Once  through  mine  own  doors  Death  did  pass ; 

One  went,  who  never  hath  returned. 


VI. 

He  will  not  smile  —  not  speak  to  me 

Once  more.     Two  years  his  chair  is  seen 

Empty  before  us.     That  was  he 

Without  whose  life  i  had  not  been. 


Your  loss  is  rarer ;  for  this  star 

Rose  with  you  through  a  little  arc 

Of  heaven,  nor  having  wandered  far, 
Shot  on  the  sudden  into  dark. 


TO  J.  s.  197 


I  knew  your  brother :  his  mute  dust 
I  honor,  and  his  living  worth  : 

A  man  more  pure  and  bold  and  just 
Was  never  bom  into  the  earth. 

IX. 

I  have  not  looked  upon  you  nigh, 

Since  that  dear  soul  hath  fallen  asleep. 

Great  Nature  is  more  wise  than  I : 
I  will  not  tell  you  not  to  weep. 

z. 

And  though  my  own  eyes  fill  with  dew. 

Drawn  from  the  spirit  through  the  brain, 

I  will  not  even  preach  to  you, 

"Weep,  weeping  dulls  the  inward  pain." 

XI. 

Let  Grief  be  her  own  mistress  still. 

She  loveth  her  own  anguish  deep 
More  than  much  pleasure.     Let  her  will 

Be  done  —  to  weep  or  not  to  weep. 


193 


XII. 


I  will  not  say  "  God's  ordinance 

Of  Death  is  blo\vn  in  every  wind  ;  " 

For  that  is  not  a  common  chance 
That  takes  away  a  noble  mind. 


xm. 


His  memory  long  will  live  alone 

In  all  our  hearts,  as  mournful  light 

That  broods  above  the  fallen  sun, 

And  dwells  in  heaven  half  the  night. 

XIV. 

Vain  solace !     Memory  standing  near 

Cast  do^vn  her  eyes,  and  in  her  throat 

Her  voice  seemed  distant,  and  a  tear 
Dropt  on  the  letters  as  I  wrote. 

XV. 

I  wrote  I  know  not  what.     In  truth, 
How  should  I  soothe  you  anyway, 

Who  miss  the  brother  of  your  youth  ? 
Yet  something  I  did  wish  to  say  : 


TO  J.  s.  199 


For  he  too  was  a  friend  to  me  : 

Both  are  my  friends,  and  my  true  breast 
Bleedeth  for  both ;  yet  it  may  be 

That  only  silence  suiteth  best. 

XVII. 

Words  weaker  than  your  grief  would  make 

Grief  more.     'T  were  better  I  should  cease 

Although  myself  could  almost  take 

The  place  of  him  that  sleeps  in  peace : 

xvm. 

Sleep  sweetly,  tender  heart,  in  peace  : 

Sleep,  holy  spirit,  blessed  soul, 
While  the  stars  burn,  the  moons  increase, 

And  the  great  ages  onward  roll. 

XDC. 

Sleep  till  the  end,  true  soul  and  sweet. 

Nothing  comes  to  thee  new  or  strange. 
Sleep  full  of  rest  from  head  to  feet ; 

Lie  still,  dry  dust,  secure  of  change. 


You  ask  me,  why,  though  ill  at  ease, 
Within  this  region  I  subsist, 
Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist, 

And  languish  for  the  purple  seas  * 

It  is  the  land  that  freemen  till. 

That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose, 

The  land  where,  girt  with  friends  or  foes, 

A  man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will ; 

A  land  of  settled  government, 

A  land  of  just  and  old  renown, 
Where  Freedom  broadens  slowly  down 

From  precedent  to  precedent : 

Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head, 
But  by  degrees  to  fulness  wrought, 
The  strength  of  some  diffusive  thought 

Hath  time  and  space  to  work  and  spread. 


201 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinion,  and  induce  a  time 
When  single  thought  is  civil  crime, 

And  individual  freedom  mute  ; 

Though  Power  should  make  from  land  to  land 
The  name  of  Britain  trebly  great  — 
Though  every  channel  of  the  State 

Should  almost  choke  with  golden  sand  - 

Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbor-mouth, 

Wild  wind !     I  seek  a  warmer  sky, 

And  I  will  see  before  I  die 

The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South. 
I.  14 


Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights, 

The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet : 

Above  her  shook  the  starry  lights  : 
She  heard  the  torrents  meet. 

Within  her  place  she  did  rejoice, 

Self-gathered  in  her  prophet-mind. 

But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Came  rolling  on  the  wind. 

Then  stept  she  down  through  town  and  field 
To  mingle  with  the  human  race, 

And  part  by  part  to  men  revealed 
The  fulness  of  her  face  — 

Grave  mother  of  majestic  works. 

From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down. 

Who,  God-like,  grasps  the  triple  forks, 
And,  King-like,  wears  the  crown : 


203 

Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdom  of  a  thousand  years 
Is  in  them.     May  perpetual  youth 

Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears  ; 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and  shine, 

Make  bright  our  days  and  light  our  drearriS. 

Turning  to  scorn  with  lips  divine 
The  falsehood  of  extremes  ! 


Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far  brought 
From  out  the  storied  Past,  and  used 
Within  the  Present,  but  transfused 

Through  future  time  by  power  of  thought. 

True  love  turned  round  on  fixed  poles, 
Love  that  endures  not  sordid  ends, 
For  English  natures,  freemen,  friends, 

Thy  brothers  and  immortal  souls. 

But  pamper  not  a  hasty  time. 
Nor  feed  with  crude  imaginings 
The  herd,  wild  hearts  and  feeble  wings, 

That  every  sophister  can  lime. 

Deliver  not  the  tasks  of  might 
To  weakness,  neither  hide  the  ray 
From  those,  not  blind,  who  wait  for  day, 

Though  sitting  girt  with  doubtful  light. 


205 

Make  knowledge  circle  with  the  winds ; 

But  let  her  herald,  Reverence,  fly 

Before  her  to  whatever  sky 
Bear  seed  of  men  and  growth  of  minds. 

Watch  what  main-currents  draw  the  years ; 
Cut  Prejudice  against  the  grain : 
But  gentle  words  are  always  gain  : 

Regard  the  weakness  of  thy  peers : 

Nor  toil  for  title,  place,  or  touch 
Of  pension,  neither  count  on  praise : 
It  grows  to  guerdon  after-days  : 

Nor  deal  in  watchwords  overmuch  ; 

Not  clinging  to  some  ancient  saw  : 
Not  mastered  by  some  modem  term  ; 
Not  swift  nor  slow  to  change,  but  firm : 

And  in  its  season  brmg  the  law ; 

That  from  Discussion's  lip  may  fall 

With  Life,  that,  working  strongly,  binds 
Set  in  all  lights  by  many  minds, 

Tf  close  the  interests  of  all. 


206 

For  Nature  also,  cold  and  warm, 
And  moist  and  dry,  devising  long, 
Through  many  agents  making  strong. 

Matures  the  individual  form. 

Meet  is  it  changes  should  control 
Our  being,  lest  we  rust  in  ease. 
We  all  are  changed  by  still  degrees, 

All  but  the  basis  of  the  soul. 

So  let  the  change  which  comes  be  free 
To  ingroove  itself  with  that,  which  flies, 
And  work,  a  joint  of  state,  that  plies 

Its  office,  moved  with  sympathy. 

A  saying  hard  to  shape  in  act ; 
For  all  the  past  of  Time  reveals 
A  bridal  dawn  of  thunder-peals, 

Wherever  Thought  hath  wedded  Fact. 

Even  now  we  hear  with  inward  strife 
A  motion  toiling  in  the  gloom  — 
The  Spirit  of  the  years  to  come 

Yearning  to  mix  himself  with  Life. 


207 

A  slow-developed  strength  awaits 
Completion  in  a  painful  school ; 
Phantoms  of  other  forms  of  rule, 

New  Majesties  of  mighty  States  — 

The  warders  of  the  growing  hour, 
But  vague  in  vapor,  hard  to  mark ; 
And  round  them  sea  and  air  are  dark 

With  great  contrivances  of  Power. 

Of  many  changes,  aptly  joined, 
Is  bodied  forth  the  second  whole. 
Regard  gradation,  lest  the  soul 

Of  Discord  race  the  rising  wind : 

A  wind  to  pufF  your  idol-fires, 

And  heap  their  ashes  on  the  head ; 
To  shame  the  boast  so  often  made, 

That  we  are  wiser  than  our  sires, 

O  yet,  if  Nature's  evil  star 

Drive  men  in  manhood,  as  in  youth. 
To  follow  flying  steps  of  Truth 

Across  the  brazen  bridge  of  war  — 


208 

If  New  and  Old,  disastrous  feud, 
Must  ever  shock,  like  armed  foes, 
And  this  be  true,  till  Time  shall  close, 

That  Principles  are  rained  in  blood  ; 

Not  yet  the  wise  of  heart  would  cease 

To  hold  his  hope  through  shame  and  guilt, 
But  with  his  hand  against  the  hilt, 

Would  pace  the  troubled  land,  like  Peace  ; 

Not  less,  though  dogs  of  Faction  bay, 
Would  serve  his  kind  in  deed  and  word, 
Certain,  if  knowledge  bring  the  sword, 

That  knowledge  takes  the  sword  away  — 

Would  love  the  gleams  of  good  that  broke 
From  either  side,  nor  veil  his  eyes : 
And  if  some  dreadful  need  should  rise, 

Would  strike,  and  firmly,  and  one  stroke  : 

To-morrow  yet  would  reap  to-day. 
As  we  bear  blossom  of  the  dead  ; 
Earn  well  the  thrifty  months,  nor  wed 

Raw  Haste,  half-sister  to  Delay. 


THE    GOOSE. 


I  KNEW  an  old  wife  lean  and  poor. 
Her  rags  scarce  held  together  ; 
There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door 
And  it  was  windy  weather. 


He  held  a  goose  upon  his  arm, 

%e  uttered  rhyme  and  reason 
"  Here,  take  the  goose,  and  keep  you  warm, 

It  8  a  stormy  season." 


III. 


She  caWht  the  white  goose  by  the  leg, 
A  goAe  —  't  was  no  great  matter. 

The  goo^  let  fall  a  golden  egg 
With  cfckle  and  with  clatter. 


210  THE    GOOSE. 

IV. 

She  dropt  the  goose,  and  caught  the  pelf, 
And  ran  to  tell  her  neighbors  ; 

And  blessed  herself,  and  cursed  herself, 
And  rested  from  her  labors. 


V. 

And  feeding  high,  and  living  soft, 
Grew  plump  and  able-bodied ; 

Until  the  grave  churchwarden  doffed. 
The  parson  smirked  and  nodded. 


VI. 

So  sitting,  served  by  man  and  maid, 
She  felt  her  heart  grow  prouder : 

But  ah  !  the  more  the  white  goosfi  V»i. 
It  clacked  and  cackled  louder. 


VII. 

It  cluttered  here,  it  chuckled  therf; 

It  stirred  the  old  wife's  mettle 
She  shifted  in  her  elbow-chair. 

And  hurled  the  pan  and  kett3. 


THE    GOOSE.  211 

VIII. 

"  A  quinsy  choke  thy  cursed  note  !  " 

Then  waxed  her  anger  stronger. 
"  Go,  take  the  goose,  and  wring  her  throat, 

1  will  not  bear  it  longer." 


Then  yelped  the  cur,  and  yawled  the  cat ; 

Ran  Gaffer,  stumbled  Gammer. 
The  goose  flew  this  way  and  flew  that. 

And  filled  the  house  with  clamor. 


z. 

As  head  and  heels  upon  the  floor 
They  floundered  all  together, 

There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door, 
And  it  was  windy  weather: 


XI. 

He  took  the  goose  upon  his  arm. 
He  uttered  words  of  scorning ; 

"  So  keep  you  cold,  or  keep  you  warm. 
It  is  a  stormy  morning." 


912  THE    GOOSE. 

xu. 

The  wild  wind  rang  from  park  and  plain, 
And  round  the  attics  rumbled, 

Till  all  the  tables  danced  again, 
And  half  the  chimneys  tumbled. 

XIII. 

The  glass  blew  in,  the  fire  blew  out. 
The  blast  was  hard  and  harder. 

Her  cap  blew  off,  her  gown  blew  up, 
And  a  whirlwind  cleared  the  larder  • 


And  while  on  all  sides  breaking  loose 
Her  household  fled  the  danger. 

Quoth  she,  "  The  Devil  take  the  goose, 
And  God  forget  the  stranger !  " 


THE    EPIC 


At  Francis  Allen's  on  the  Christmas-eve,  — 
The  game  of  forfeits  done  —  the  girls  all  kissed 
Beneath  the  sacred  bush  and  past  away  — 
The  parson  Holmes,  the  poet  Everard  Hall, 
The  host  and  I,  sat  round  the  wassail-bowl, 
Then  half-way  ebbed :  and  there  we  held  a  talk, 
How  all  the  old  honor  had  from  Christmas  gone. 
Or  gone,  or  dwindled  down  to  some  odd  games 
In  some  odd  nooks  like  this ;  till  I,  tired  out 
With  cutting  eights  that  day  upon  the  pond. 
Where,  three  times  slipping  from  the  outer  edge, 
I  bumped  the  ice  into  three  several  stars. 
Fell  in  a  doze  ;  and  half-awake  I  heard 
The  parson  taking  wide  and  wider  sweeps. 
Now  harping  on  the  church-commissioners. 
Now  hawking  at  Geology  and  schism  ; 
Until  I  woke,  and  found  him  settled  down 
Upon  the  general  decay  of  faith 


214  THE    EPIC. 

Right  through  the  world  — "  at  home  was  little  lelt, 

And  none  abroad :  there  was  no  anchor,  none, 

To  hold  by."     Francis,  laughing,  clapt  his  hand 

On  Everard's  shoulder,  with  "  I  hold  by  him." 

"  And  I,"  quoth  Everard,  "  by  the  wassail-bowl." 

"  Why  yes,"  I  said.  "  we  knew  your  gift  that  way 

At  college  :  but  another  which  you  had, 

I  mean  of  verse,  (for  so  we  held  it  then,) 

What  came  of  that  ? "  "You  know,"  said  Frank,  "he  hung 

His  epic  of  King  Arthur  in  the  fire  !  " 

And  then  to  me  demanding  why  ?     "  O,  sir. 

He  thought  that  nothing  new  was  said,  or  else 

Something  so  said  't  was  nothing  —  that  a  truth 

Looks  freshest  in  the  fashion  of  the  day : 

God  knows  :  he  has  a  mint  of  reasons  :  ask. 

It  pleased  me  well  enough."     "  Nay,  nay,"  said  Hall, 

"  Why  take  the  style  of  those  heroic  times  ? 

For  nature  brings  not  back  the  Mastodon, 

Nor  we  those  times ;  and  why  should  any  man 

Remodel  models  ?  these  twelve  books  of  mine 

Were  faint  Homeric  echoes,  nothing  worth. 

Mere  chaff  and  draff,  much  better  burnt."     "  But  I," 

Said  Francis,  "  picked  the  eleventh  from  this  iiearth, 

And  have  it :  keep  a  thing,  its  use  will  come. 

1  hoard  it  as  a  sugar-plum  for  Holmes." 


MORTE    D'ARTHUR.  215 

He  laughed,  and  1,  though  sleepy,  like  a  horse 
That  hears  the  corn-bin  open,  pricked  my  ears  ; 
For  I  remembered  Everard's  college  fame 
When  we  were  Freshmen  :  then  at  my  request 
He  brought  it ;  and  the  poet,  little  urged, 
But  with  some  prelude  of  disparagement, 
Read,  mouthing  out  his  hollow  oes  and  aes, 
Deep-chested  music,  and  to  this  result. 


MORTE  D'ARTHUR. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  rolled 

Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea  ; 

Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man, 

Had  fallen  in  Lyonness  about  their  Lord, 

King  Arthur  :  then,  because  his  wound  was  deep, 

The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him. 

Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights. 

And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 

A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 

That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 


216  MORTE    D'akTHUR. 

On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  f\ill. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep  —  the  men  I  loved.     I  think  that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
1  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made,  — 
Though  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more  —  but  let  what  will  be,  be, 
1  am  so  deeply  smitten  through  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride  :  for  thou  remeniberest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
Holding  the  sword  —  and  how  I  rowed  across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  King : 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 


MOETE    d'ARTHUR,  217 

But  now  delay  not :  take  Excalibur, 

A.nd  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  meer : 

Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus, 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  through  the  helm. 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  best  will  all  perform  at  full. 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  word." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruined  shrine  he  stept, 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men. 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.      He,  stepping  down 
By  zig-zag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake- 
There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon. 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud,  ran  fortn 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt: 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  studs. 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewellery.     He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  ho  stood 
This  way  and  tliat  dividing  the  swift  mind, 

VOL.  1.  15 


218  MORTE    d'aRTHUR, 

In  act  to  throw ;  but  at  the  last  it  seemed 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  concealed 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterfiags, 
That  whistled  stitr  and  dry  about  the  marge 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  Hast  thou  performed  my  mission  which  I  gave  ? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast  heard  ? " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  pale  ; 
"  Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  nature  and  thy  name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseemed 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  followed,  either  hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  meer. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word.'' 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time. 
Counting  the  deAvy  pebbles,  fixed  in  though  t  ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt, 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud. 


MORTE    d'aRTHUR.  219 

"  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note. 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  earth, 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were  done  ? 
What  harm,  undone  ?  deep  harm  to  disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 
The  king  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt  ?  but  were  this  kept, 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  Icings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms. 
Saying,  '  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame  were  lost.' 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King 


220  MOUTE  d'arthur. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily : 
"  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  o-r  what  hast  heard  ?  " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in  wrath  : 
"  Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue. 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted  !     Woe  is  me ! 
"Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 
Laid  widowed  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bowed  the  will.     I  see  thee  what  thou  art. 
For  thou,  the  latest  left  of  all  my  knights, 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  preciuus  hilt; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence  : 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutched  the  t^word. 
And  strongly  wheeled  and  threw  it.    'J' he  great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon. 


MORTE    D  ARTHUR. 


221 


A.nd  flashing  romid  and  round,  and  whirled  in  an  arch, 

Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 

Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 

By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 

So  flashed  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur : 

But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 

And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished  him 

Tliree  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  meer. 

And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker  breath  : 
"  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out:  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or  seen! " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die, 
Not  though  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men. 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling  him  ; 
But  when  I  looked  again,  behold  an  arm, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  meer." 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing  hard  : 


222  MOKTK    D'AKTHUR. 

"  My  end  draws  nigh ;  'tis  time  that  I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin  ;  yet  I  fear 
ftly  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  through  his  tears, 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words, 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands. 
And  rising  bore  him  through  the  place  of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walked.  King  Arthur  panted  liard, 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  ruute.     So  sighed  the  King, 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear,  "  Quick,  quick  I 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to  ridge, 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  loolcing,  as  he  walked, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.     His  own  thought  drove  him  like  a  goad. 
Dry  clashed  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right 


MOKTE  d'arthur.  223 

The  bare  black  cliff  clanged  round  him,  as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels  — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo !  the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath  them  ;  and  descending  they  were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream  —  by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold  —  and  from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shivered  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind,  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 
Then  murmured  Arthur,  "  Place  me  in  the  barge," 
And  to  the  barge  they  came.    There  those  three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King,  and  wept. 
But  she  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap. 
And  loosed  the  shattered  casque,  and  chafed  his  hands, 
And  called  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud. 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood  :  for  all  his  face  was  white 
And  colorless,  and  like  the  withered  moon 


224  MORTE  d'arthctr. 

Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east ; 

And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dashed  with  drops 

Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls  — 

That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 

High  from  the  dais-throne  —  were  parched  with  dust 

Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 

Mixed  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed  his  lips. 

So  like  a  shattered  column  lay  the  King ; 

Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest, 

From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 

Shot  through  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 

Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
"  Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go  ? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead. 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world  ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless. 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds." 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the  barge  : 


MORTE    D  ARTHUR. 


225 


"  The  old  order  chang-eth,  yielding  place  to  new, 

And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 

Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 

Comfort  thyself :  what  comfort  is  in  me  ? 

I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 

May  He  within  himself  make  pure  !  but  thou, 

If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 

Pray  for  my  soul.     More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 

Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore,  let  thy  voice 

Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 

For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 

That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 

If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 

Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them  friend  ? 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 

Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 

But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 

With  these  thou  seest  —  if  indeed  I  go  — 

(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 

To  the  island-valley  of  the  Avilion ; 

Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 

Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ;  but  it  lies 

Deep-meadowed,  happy,  fair  with  orchard-lawns 

And  bowery  hollows  crowned  with  summer  sea. 

Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound." 


226  MORTE  d'arthur. 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted  swan, 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Looked  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 
And  on  the  meer  the  wailing  died  away. 


Here  ended  Hall,  and  our  last  light,  that  long 
Had  winked  and  threatened  darkness,  flared  and  fell ; 
At  which  the  Parson,  sent  to  sleep  with  sound, 
And  waked  with  silence,  grunted  "  Good  !  "  but  we 
Sat  rapt:  it  was  the  tone  with  which  he  read  — 
Perhaps  some  modern  touches  here  and  there 
Redeemed  it  from  the  charge  of  nothingness  — 
Or  else  we  loved  the  man,  and  prized  his  work  ; 
I  know  not :  but  we  sitting,  as  I  said. 
The  cock  crew  loud  :  as  at  that  time  of  year 
The  lusty  bird  takes  every  hour  for  dawn  : 
Then  Francis,  muttering,  like  a  man  ill-used, 

There  now  —  that 's  nothing!  "  drew  a  little  back, 
And  drove  his  heel  into  the  smouldered  log. 
That  sent  a  blast  of  sparkles  up  the  flue  : 


MORTE   d'arthur.  22T 

And  so  to  bed ;  where  yet  in  sleep  1  seemed 
To  sail  with  Arthur  under  looming  shores, 
Point  after  point,  till  on  to  dawn,  when  dreams 
Begin  to  feel  the  truth  and  stir  of  day, 
To  me,  methought,  who  waited  with  a  crowd, 
There  came  a  bark  that,  blowing  forward,  bore 
King  Arthur,  like  a  modern  gentleman 
Of  stateliest  port ;  and  all  the  people  cried, 
"  Arthur  is  come  again  :  he  cannot  die." 
Then  those  that  stood  upon  the  hills  behind 
Repeated  —  "  Come  again,  and  thrice  as  fair  ;" 
And,  further  inland,  voices  echoed  —  "  Come 
With  all  good  things,  and  war  shall  be  no  more." 
At  this  a  hundred  bells  began  to  peal, 
That  with  the  sound  I  woke,  and  heard  indeed 
The  clear  church-bells  ring  in  the  Christmas  morn. 


THE   GARDENER'S    DAUGHTER; 


THE   PICTURES. 


This  morning  is  the  morning  of  the  day 
When  I  and  Eustace  from  the  city  went 
To  see  the  Gardener's  Daughter  ;  I  and  he, 
Brothers  in  Art ;  a  friendship  so  complete 
Portioned  in  halves  between  us,  that  we  grew 
The  fable  of  the  city  where  we  dwelt. 

My  Eustace  might  have  sat  for  Hercules  ; 
So  muscular  he  spread,  so  broad  a  breast. 
He,  by  some  law  that  holds  in  love,  and  draws 
The  greater  to  the  lesser,  long  desired 
A  certain  miracle  of  symmetry, 
A  miniature  of  loveliness,  all  grace 
Summed  up  and  closed  in  little  ;  —  Juliet,  she 
So  light  of  foot,  so  light  of  spirit  — oh,  she 


THE  gardener's  DAUGHTER.  229 

To  me  myself,  for  some  three  careless  moons, 
The  summer  pilot  of  an  empty  heart 
Unto  the  shores  of  nothing !     Know  you  not 
Such  touches  are  but  embassies  of  love, 
To  tamper  with  the  feelings,  ere  he  found 
Empire  for  life  ?  but  Eustace  painted  her, 
And  said  to  me,  she  sitting  with  us  then, 
"  When  will  you  paint  like  this  ?  "  and  I  replied, 
(My  words  were  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest,) 
"  'T  is  not  your  work,  but  Love's.     Love  unperceived. 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  ail. 
Came,  drew  your  pencil  from  you,  made  those  eyes 
Darker  than  darkest  pansies,  and  that  hair 
More  black  than  ashbuds  in  the  front  of  March." 
And  Juliet  answered  laughing,  "  Go  and  see 
The  Gardener's  daughter  :  trust  me,  after  that, 
You  scarce  can  fail  to  match  his  masterpiece." 
And  up  we  rose,  and  on  the  spur  we  went. 
Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor  quite 
Beyond  it,  blooms  the  garden  that  I  love. 
News  from  the  humming  city  comes  to  it 
In  sound  of  funeral  or  of  marriage  bells ; 
And,  sitting  muffled  in  dark  leaves,  you  hear 
The  windy  clanging  of  the  minster  clock  ; 
Although  between  it  and  the  garden  lies 


230  THE  gardener's  daughter  ; 

A  league  of  grass,  washed  by  a  slow  broad  stream, 
That,  stirred  with  languid  pulses  of  the  oar, 
Waves  all  its  lazy  lilies,  and  creeps  on. 
Barge-laden,  to  three  arches  of  a  bridge 
Crowned  with  the  minster-towers. 

The  fields  between 
Are  de^V}^-f^esh,  browsed  by  deep-uddered  kine, 
And  all  about  the  large  lime  feathers  low, 
The  lime  a  summer  home  of  murmurous  wings. 

In  that  still  place  she,  hoarded  in  herself, 
Grew,  seldom  seen  :  not  less  among  us  lived 
Her  fame  from  lip  to  lip.     Who  had  not  heard 
Of  Rose,  the  Gardener's  daughter  ?     Where  was  he, 
So  blunt  in  memory,  so  old  at  heart, 
At  such  a  distance  from  his  youth  in  grief. 
That,  having  seen,  forgot  ?     The  common  mouth, 
So  gross  to  express  delight,  in  praise  of  her 
Grew  oratory.     Such  a  lord  is  Love, 
And  Beauty  such  a  mistress  of  the  world. 

And  if  I  said  that  Fancy,  led  by  Love, 
Would  play  with  flying  forms  and  images. 
Yet  this  is  also  true,  that,  long  before 
I  looked  upon  her,  when  I  heard  her  name 
My  heart  was  like  a  prophet  to  my  heart, 
And  told  me  I  should  love.     A  crowd  of  hopes. 


OR.    THE    PICTURES.  2.31 

That  sought  to  sow  themselves  like  winged  seeds, 
Bora  out  of  everj'thing  I  heard  and  saw. 
Fluttered  about  my  senses  and  my  soul  ; 
And  vague  desires,  like  fitful  blasts  of  balm 
To  one  that  travels  quickly,  made  the  air 
Of  Life  delicious,  and  all  kinds  of  thought, 
That  verged  upon  them,  sweeter  than  the  dream 
Dreamed  by  a  happy  man,  when  the  dark  East, 
Unseen,  is  brightening  to  his  bridal  morn. 
And  sure  this  orbit  of  the  memory  folds 
Forever  in  itself  the  day  we  went 
To  see  her.     All  the  land  in  flowery  squares, 
Beneath  a  broad  and  equal-blowing  wind, 
Smelt  of  the  coming  summer,  as  one  large  cloud 
Drew  downward  :  but  all  else  of  Heaven  was  pure 
Up  to  the  Sun,  and  May  from  verge  to  verge, 
And  May  with  me  from  head  to  heel.     And  now. 
As  though  't  were  yesterdaj?',  as  though  it  were 
The  hour  just  flown,  that  mom  \vith  all  its  sound, 
(For  those  old  Mays  had  thrice  the  life  of  these,) 
Rings  in  mine  ears.     The  steer  forgot  to  graze, 
And,  where  the  hedge-row  cuts  the  pathway,  stood, 
Leaning  his  horns  into  the  neighbor  field. 
And  lowing  to  his  fellows.     From  the  woods 
Came  voices  of  the  well-contented  doves. 


232  THE  gardener's  daughter; 

The  lark  could  scarce  get  out  his  notes  for  joy, 
Hut  shook  his  song  together  as  he  neared 
His  happy  home,  the  ground.     To  left  and  right, 
The  cuckoo  told  his  name  to  all  the  hills ; 
The  mellow  ouzel  fluted  in  the  elm  ; 
The  redcap  whistled  ;  and  the  nightingale 
Sang  loud,  as  though  he  were  the  bird  of  day. 

And  Eustace  turned,  and  smiling  said  to  me, 
"  Hear  how  the  bushes  echo  !  by  my  life, 
These  birds  have  joyful  thoughts.    Think  you  they  sing 
Like  poets,  from  the  vanity  of  song  ? 
Or  have  they  any  sense  of  why  they  sing  ? 
And  would  they  praise  the  heavens  for  what  they  have  ?  " 
And  I  made  answer,  "  Were  there  nothing  else 
For  which  to  praise  the  heavens  but  only  love, 
That  only  love  were  cause  enough  for  praise." 

Lightly  he  laughed,  as  one  that  read  my  thouLrbt, 
And  on  we  went ;  but  ere  an  hour  had  passed, 
We  reached  a  meadow  slanting  to  the  North  ; 
Down  which  a  well-worn  pathway  courted  us 
To  one  green  wicket  in  a  private  hedge  ; 
This,  yielding,  gave  into  a  grassy  walk 
Through  ciowded  lilac-ambush  trimly  pruned  ; 
And  one  warm  gust,  full-fed  with  perfume,  blew 
Beyond  us,  as  we  entered  in  the  cool. 


OR,    THE    PICTURES.  233 

The  garden  stretches  southward.     In  the  midst 
A  cedar  spread  his  dark-green  layers  of  shade. 
The  garden-glasses  shoi>3,  and  momently 
The  twinkling  laurel  scattered  silver  lights. 

"  Eustace,"  I  said,  "  this  wonder  keeps  the  house." 
He  nodded,  but  a  moment  afterw^ards 
He  cried,  "  Look !  look  !  "     Before  he  ceased  I  turned, 
And,  ere  a  star  can  wink,  beheld  her  there. 

For  up  the  porch  there  grew  an  Eastern  rose, 
That,  flowering  high,  the  last  night's  gale  had  caught, 
And  blo\Am.  across  the  walk.     One  arm  aloft  — 
Gowned  in  pure  white,  that  fitted  to  the  shape  — 
Holding  the  bush,  to  fix  it  back,  she  stood. 
A  single  stream  of  all  her  soft  brown  hair 
Poured  on  one  side :  the  shadow  of  the  flowers 
Stole  all  the  golden  gloss,  and,  wavering 
Lovingly  lower,  trembled  on  her  waist  — 
Ah,  happy  shade  !  —  and  still  went  wavering  down, 
But,  ere  it  touched  a  foot  that  might  have  danced 
The  greensward  into  greener  circles,  dipt, 
And  mixed  with  shadows  of  the  common  ground ! 
But  the  full  day  dwelt  on  her  brows,  and  sunned 
Her  violet  eyes,  and  all  her  Hebe-bloom, 
And  doubled  his  own  warmth  against  her  lips. 
And  on  the  bounteous  wave  of  such  a  breast 
vo<    '  16 


234  THE  gardener's  daughter  ; 

As  never  pencil  drew.    Half  light,  half  shade, 
She  stood,  a  sight  to  make  an  old  man  young. 

So  rapt,  we  neared  the  house  ;  but  she,  a  Rose 
In  roses,  mingled  with  her  fragrant  toil. 
Nor  heard  us  come,  nor  from  her  tendance  turned 
Into  the  world  without ;  till  close  at  hand, 
And  almost  ere  I  knew  mine  own  intent, 
This  murmur  broke  the  stillness  of  that  air 
Which  brooded  round  about  her : 

"Ah,  one  rose, 
One  rose,  but  one,  by  those  fair  fingers  culled, 
Were  worth  a  hundred  kisses  pressed  on  lips 
Less  exquisite  than  thine  !  " 

She  looked  :  but  all 
Suffused  with  blushes  —  neither  self-possessed 
Nor  startled,  but  betwixt  this  mood  and  that, 
Divided  in  a  graceful  quiet  —  paused, 
And  dropt  the  branch  she  held,  and  turning,  wound 
Her  looser  hair  in  braid,  and  stirred  her  lips 
For  some  sweet  answer,  though  no  answer  cat.ne  ; 
Nor  yet  refused  the  rose,  but  granted  it. 
And  moved  away,  and  left  me,  statue-like. 
In  act  to  render  thanks. 

I,  that  whole  day, 
Saw  her  no  more,  although  I  lingered  there 


OR,    THE    PICTURES.  235 

Till  every  daisy  slept,  and  Love's  white  star 
Beamed  through  the  thickened  cedar  in  the  dusk. 

So  home  we  went,  and  all  the  livelong  way 
With  solemn  gibe  did  Eustace  banter  me. 
"  Now,"  said  he,  "  will  you  climb  the  top  of  Art. 
You  cannot  fail  but  work  in  hues  to  dim 
The  Titianic  Flora.     Will  you  match 
My  Juliet  ?  you,  not  you,  —  the  Master,  Love, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all." 

So  home  I  went,  but  could  not  sleep  for  joy, 
Reading  her  perfect  features  in  the  gloom. 
Kissing  the  rose  she  gave  me  o'er  and  o'er. 
And  shaping  faithful  record  of  the  glance 
That  graced  the  giving  —  such  a  noise  of  life 
Swarmed  in  the  golden  present,  such  a  voice 
Called  to  me  from  the  years  to  come,  and  such 
A  length  of  bright  horizon  rimmed  the  dark. 
And  all  that  night  I  heard  the  watchmen  peal 
The  sliding  season  :  all  that  night  I  heard 
The  heavy  clocks  knoUing  the  drowsy  hours. 
The  drowsy  hours,  dispensers  of  all  good, 
O'er  the  mute  city  stole  with  folded  wings, 
Distilling  odors  on  me  as  they  went 
To  greet  their  fairer  sisters  of  the  East. 

Love  at  first  sight,  first-bom  and  heir  to  all, 


236  THE  gardener's  daughter; 

Made  this  night  thus.     Henceforward  squall  nor  storm 
Could  keep  me  from  that  Eden  where  she  dwelt. 
Light  pretexts  drew  me :  sometimes  a  Dutch  love 
For  tulips ;  then  for  roses,  moss  or  musk, 
To  grace  my  city-rooms ;  or  fruits  and  cream 
Served  in  the  weeping  elm ;  and  more  and  more 
A  word  could  bring  the  color  to  my  cheek ; 
A  thought  would  fill  my  eyes  with  happy  dew ; 
Love  trebled  life  within  me,  and  with  each 
The  year  increased. 

The  daughters  of  the  year, 
One  after  one,  through  that  still  garden  passed  : 
Each  garlanded  vnth  her  peculiar  flower 
Danced  into  light,  and  died  into  the  shade  ; 
And  each  in  passing  touched  with  some  new  grace 
Or  seemed  to  touch  her,  so  that  day  by  day, 
Like  one  that  never  can  be  wholly  knoAvn, 
Her  beauty  grew  ;  till  Autumn  brought  an  hour 
For  Eustace,  when  I  heard  his  deep  "  I  will," 
Breathed,  like  the  covenant  of  a  God,  to  hold 
From  thence  through  all  the  worlds  :  but  I  rose  up 
Full  of  his  bliss,  and  following  her  dark  eyes. 
Felt  earth  as  air  beneath  me,  till  I  reached 
The  wicket-gate,  and  found  her  standing  there. 
There  sat  we  down  upon  a  garden  mound, 


OR,    THE    PICTURES.  237 

Two  mutually  enfolded  ;  Love,  the  third, 
Between  us,  in  the  circle  of  his  anus 
Enwound  us  both  ;  and  over  many  a  range 
Of  waning  lime  the  gray  cathedral  towers, 
Across  a  hazy  glimmer  of  the  west. 
Revealed  their  shining  windows  :  from  them  clashed 
The  bells ;  we  listened ;  with  the  time  we  played ; 
We  spoke  of  other  things  ;  we  coursed  about 
The  subject  most  at  heart,  more  near  and  near, 
Like  doves  about  a  dovecote,  wheeling  round 
The  central  wish,  until  we  settled  there. 

Then,  in  that  time  and  place,  I  spoke  to  her, 
Requiring,  though  I  knew  it  was  mine  own. 
Yet  for  the  pleasure  that  I  took  to  hear. 
Requiring  at  her  hand  the  greatest  gift, 
A  woman's  heart,  the  heart  of  her  I  loved  ; 
And  in  that  time  and  place  she  answered  me, 
And  in  the  compass  of  three  little  words. 
More  musical  than  ever  came  in  one. 
The  silver  fragments  of  a  broken  voice, 
Made  me  most  happy,  lisping  "  I  am  thine !  " 

Shall  I  cease  here  ?     Is  this  enough  to  say 
That  my  desire,  like  all  strongest  hopes. 
By  its  own  energy  fulfilled  itself. 
Merged  in  completion  ?     Would  you  learn  at  full 


238  THE  gardener's  daughter; 

How  passion  rose  through  circumstantial  grades 

Beyond  all  grades  developed  ?  and  indeed 

I  had  not  staid  so  long  to  tell  you  all, 

But  while  I  mused  came  Memory  with  sad  eyes, 

Holding  the  folded  annals  of  my  youth ; 

And  while  I  mused,  Love  with  knit  brows  went  by,  . 

And  with  a  flying  finger  swept  my  lips. 

And  spake,  "  Be  v^dse  :  not  easily  forgiven 

Are  those,  v.Iio  ^cLting  wide  the  doors,  that  bar 

The  secret  bridal  chambers  of  the  heart. 

Let  in  the  day."     Here,  then,  my  words  have  end. 

Yet  might  I  tell  of  meetings,  of  farewells  — 
Of  that  which  came  between,  more  sweet  than  each, 
In  whispers,  like  the  whispers  of  the  leaves 
That  tremble  round  a  nightingale  —  in  sighs 
Which  perfect  Joy,  perplexed  for  utterance, 
Stole  from  her  sister  Sorrow.     Might  I  not  tell 
Of  difference,  reconcilement,  pledges  given, 
And  vows,  where  there  was  never  need  of  vows, 
And  kisses,  where  the  heart  on  one  wild  leap 
Hung  tranced  from  all  pulsation,  as  above 
The  heavens  between  their  fairy  fleeces  pale 
Sowed  all  their  mystic  gulfs  with  fleeting  stars  , 
Or  while  the  balmy  glooming,  crescent-lit, 
Spread  the  light  haze  along  the  river-shores, 


OR,    THE    PICTURES.  239 

And  in  the  hollows ;  or  as  once  we  met 
Unheedful,  though  beneath  a  whispering  rain 
Nio'ht  slid  down  one  lonof  stream  of  siffhinw  wind, 
And  in  her  bosom  bore  the  baby,  Sleep. 

But  this  whole  hour  your  eyes  have  been  intent 
On  that  veiled  picture  —  veiled,  for  what  it  holds 
May  not  be  dwelt  on  by  the  common  day. 
This  prelude  has  prepared  thee.     Raise  thy  soul. 
Make  thine  heart  ready  with  thine  eyes  :  the  time 
Is  come  to  raise  the  veil. 

Behold  her  there. 
As  I  beheld  her  ere  she  knew  my  heart. 
My  first,  last  love ;  the  idol  of  my  youth, 
The  darling  of  my  manhood,  and,  alas  ! 
Now  the  most  blessed  memory  of  mine  age. 


DORA. 


With  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 

William  and  Dora.     William  was  his  son, 

And  she  his  niece.     He  often  looked  at  them, 

And  often  thought  *'  I  '11  make  them  man  and  wife." 

Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in  all, 

And  yearned  towards  William ;  but  the  youth,  because 

He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the  house, 

Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a  day 
When  Allan  called  his  son,  and  said,  "  My  son : 
I  married  late,  but  I  would  wish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I  die  : 
And  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  match. 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora ;  she  is  well 
To  look  to ;  thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 
She  is  my  brother's  daughter :  he  and  I 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and  he  died 
[n  foreign  lands ;  but  for  his  sake  I  bred 


DORA. 


241 


His  daughter  Dora  :  take  her  for  your  wife ; 
For  I  have  wished  this  man'iage,  night  and  day, 
For  many  years."     But  William  answered  short ; 
"  I  cannot  marry  Dora ;  by  my  life, 
I  will  not  marry  Dora."     Then  the  old  man 
Was  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands,  and  said : 
"  You  will  not,  boy !  you  dare  to  answer  thus  ! 
But  in  my  time  a  father's  word  was  law, 
And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.     Look  to  't ; 
Consider,  William  :  take  a  month  to  think. 
And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my  wish ; 
Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you  shall  pack, 
And  nevermore  darken  my  doors  again  !  " 
But  William  answered  madly ;  bit  his  lips. 
And  broke  away.     The  more  he  looked  at  her 
The  less  he  liked  her ;  and  his  ways  were  harsh  ; 
But  Dora  bore  them  meekly.     Then  before 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father's  house. 
And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the  fields  ; 
And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  wooed  and  wed 
A  laborer's  daughter,  Maiy  Morrison. 

Then,  when  the  bells  were  ringing,  Allan  called 
His  niece  and  said :  "  My  girl,  I  love  you  well ; 
But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was  my  son. 
Or  change  a  word  with  her  he  calls  his  wife. 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.     My  will  is  law." 


a 42  DORA. 

And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.     She  thought, 
"  It  cannot  be  :  my  uncle's  mind  will  change  !  " 

And  days  went  on,  and  there  was  bom  a  boy 
To  William ;  then  distresses  came  on  him  ; 
And  day  by  day  he  passed  his  father's  gate, 
Heart-broken,  and  his  father  helped  him  not. 
But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could  save, 
And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did  they  know 
Who  sent  it ;  till  at  last  a  fever  seized 
On  William,  and  in  harvest-time  he  died. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.     Mary  sat 
And  looked  with  tears  upon  her  boy,  and  thought 
Hard  things  of  Dora.     Dora  came  and  said  : 
"  I  have  obeyed  my  uncle  until  now, 
And  I  have  sinned,  for  it  was  all  through  me 
This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 
But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's  gone, 
And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he  chose, 
And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  you  : 
You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these  five  years 
So  full  a  harvest :  let  me  take  the  boy. 
And  I  will  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 
Among  the  wheat ;  that  when  his  heart  is  glad 
Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy, 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's  gone." 

And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went  her  way 


243 


Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  upon  a  mound 
That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies  grew. 
Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 
And  spied  her  not ;  for  none  of  all  his  men 
Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the  child ; 
And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to  him, 
But  her  heart  failed  her ;  and  the  reapers  reaped, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  v/as  dark. 

But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose  and  took 
The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the  mound ; 
And  made  a  little  wreath  of  all  the  flowers 
That  giew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his  hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's  eye. 
Then  when  the  farmer  passed  into  the  field 
He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at  work, 
And  came  and  said,  "  Where  were  you  yesterday  ? 
Whose  child  is  that  ?     What  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 
So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground. 
And  answered  softly,  "  This  is  William's  child !  " 
"  And  did  I  not,"  said  Allan,  "  did  I  not 
Forbid  you,  Dora  ? "     Dora  said  again  : 
"  Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the  child 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's  gone  !  " 
And  Allan  said,  "  I  see  it  is  a  trick 
Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman  there. 
I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you  ! 


244  DORA. 

You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet  you  dared 
To  slight  it.     Well  —  for  I  will  take  the  boy  ; 
But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me  more." 

So  saying,  he  took  the  boy,  that  cried  aloud 
And  struggled  hard.     The  wreath  of  flowers  fell 
At  Dora's  feet.     She  bowed  upon  her  hands. 
And  the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from  the  field. 
More  and  more  distant.     She  bowed  down  her  head, 
Kemembering  the  day  when  first  she  came, 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.     She  bowed  down 
And  wept  in  secret ;  and  the  reapers  reaped, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary's  house,  and  stood 
Upon  the  threshold.     Mary  saw  the  boy 
Was  not  with  Dora.     She  broke  out  in  praise 
To  God,  that  helped  her  in  her  widowhood 
And  Dora  said,  "  My  uncle  took  the  boy ; 
But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with  you  : 
He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more." 
Then  answered  Maiy,  "  This  shall  never  be, 
That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble  on  thyself : 
And,  now  I  think,  he  shall  not  have  the  boy, 
For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to  slight 
His  mother  ;  therefore  thou  and  I  will  go, 
And  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him  home  ; 
And  I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back ; 


noRA.  245 

But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again, 
Then  thou  and  I  will  live  within  one  house, 
And  work  for  WiUiani's  child,  until  he  grows 
Of  age  to  help  us." 

So  the  women  kissed 
Each  other,  and  set  out  and  reached  the  farm. 
Tlie  door  was  off  the  latch  :  they  peeped  and  saw 
The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsiie's  knees. 
Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his  arm, 
And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the  cheeks. 
Like  one  that  loved  him  ;  and  the  lad  stretched  out 
And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal,  that  hung 
From  Allan's  watch,  and  sparkled  by  the  fire. 
Then  they  came  in ;  but  when  the  boy  beheld 
His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her : 
And  Allan  sat  him  down,  and  ]\Iary  said : 

"  0  Father !  —  if  you  let  me  call  you  so  — 
I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself, 
Or  William,  or  this  child ;  but  now  I  come 
For  Dora  .  take  her  back  ;  she  loves  you  well. 

0  Sir,  when  William  died,  he  died  at  peace 
With  all  men ;  for  I  asked  him,  and  he  said. 
He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me. — 

1  had  been  a  patient  wife  :  but,  Sir,  he  said 
That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father  thus : 


246  DORA. 

'  God  bless  him  ! '  he  said,  '  and  may  he  never  know 
The  troubles  I  have  gone  through  ! '     Then  he  turned 
His  face  and  passed  —  unhappy  that  I  am  ! 
But  now^,  Sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for  you 
Will  make  him_  hard,  and  he  will  learn  to  slight 
His  father's  memory ;  and  take  Dora  back, 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before," 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.     There  was  silence  in  the  room ; 
And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in  sobs :  — 

*'  I  have  been  to  blame  —  to  blame  !     I   have  killed 
my  son ! 
I  have  killed  him  —  but  I  loved  him  —  my  dear  son ! 
May  God  forgive  me !  —  I  have  been  to  blame. 
Kiss  me,  my  children  !  " 

Then  they  clung  about 
The  old  man's  neck,  and  kissed  him  many  times. 
And  all  the  man  was  broken  vdth  remorse ; 
And  all  his  love  came  back  a  hundredfold ; 
And  for  three  hours  he  sobbed  o'er  William's  child, 
Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 
Within  one  house  together ;  and  as  years 
Went  forward,  Mary  took  another  mate  ; 
But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 


AUDLEY    COURT, 


"  The  Bull,  the  Fleece  are  crammed,  and  not  a  room 
For  love  or  money.     Let  us  picnic  there 
At  Audley  Court." 

I  spoke,  while  Audley  feast 
Hummed  like  a  hive  all  round  the  narrow  quay, 
To  Francis,  with  a  basket  on  his  arm, 
To  Francis  just  alighted  from  the  boat. 
And  breathing  of  the  sea.     "With  all  my  heart," 
Said  Francis.  Then  we  shouldered  through  the  swam 
And  rounded  by  the  stillness  of  the  beach 
To  where  the  bay  runs  up  its  latest  horn. 

We  left  the  dying  ebb  that  faintly  lipped 
The  flat  red  granite  ;  so  by  many  a  sweep 
Of  meadow  smooth  from  aftermath  we  reached 
The  grifFm-guarded  gates,  and  passed  through  all 
The  pillared  dusk  of  sounding  sycamores. 
And  crossed  the  garden  to  the  gardener's  lodge. 


248  AUDLEY   COURT. 

With  all  its  casements  bedded,  and  its  walls 
And  chimneys  muffled  in  the  leafy  vine. 

There,  on  a  slope  of  orchard,  Francis  laid 
A.  damask  napkin  wrought  with  horse  and  hound, 
Brought  out  a  dusky  loaf  that  smelt  of  home, 
And,  half-cut-down,  a  pasty  costly-made, 
WTiere  quail  and  pigeon,  lark  and  leveret  lay, 
Like  fossils  of  the  rock,  with  golden  yolks 
Imbedded  and  injellied ;  last,  with  these, 
A  flask  of  cider  from  his  father's  vats. 
Prime,  which  I  knew ;  and  so  we  sat  and  eat 
And  talked  old  matters  over :  who  was  dead. 
Who  married,  who  was  like  to  be,  and  how 
The  races  went,  and  who  would  rent  the  hall : 
Then  touched  upon  the  game,  how  scarce  it  was 
This  season  :  glancing  thence,  discussed  the  farm, 
The  fourfield  system  and  the  price  of  grain ; 
And  struck  upon  the  corn-laws,  where  we  spiil, 
And  came  again  together  on  the  king 
With  heated  faces ;  till  he  laughed  aloud  ; 
And,  while  the  blackbird  on  the  pippin  hung 
To  hear  him,  clapt  his  hand  in  mine  and  sang  — 

"  0  !  who  would  fight  and  march  and  countennarcli 
Be  shot  for  sixpence  in  a  battle-field. 
And  shovelled  up  into  a  bloody  trench 
^^here  no  one  knows  ?  but  let  me  live  mv  life. 


AUDLEY    COURT.  249 

"  O !  who  would  cast  and  balance  at  a  desk, 
Perched  like  a  crow  upon  a  three-legged  stool, 
Till  all  his  juice  is  dried,  and  all  his  joints 
Are  full  of  chalk  ?  but  let  me  live  my  life. 

"  Who  'd  serve  the  state  ?  for  if  I  carved  my  name 
Upon  the  cliffs  that  guard  my  native  land. 
I  might  as  well  have  traced  it  in  the  sands  ; 
The  sea  wastes  all :  but  let  me  live  my  life. 

"  O  !  who  would  love  ?     I  wooed  a  woman  once, 
But  she  was  sharper  than  an  eastern  wind. 
And  all  my  heart  turned  from  her,  as  a  thorn 
Turns  from  the  sea :  but  let  me  live  my  life." 

He  sang  his  song,  and  I  replied  with  mine : 
I  found  it  in  a  volume,  all  of  songs. 
Knocked  do\vn  to  me,  when  old  Sir  Robert's  pride, 
His  books  —  the  more  the  pity,  so  I  said  — 
Came  to  the  hammer  here  in  March  —  and  this  — 
I  set  the  words,  and  added  names  I  knew. 

"  Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  sleep,  and  dream  of  me  : 
Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  thy  sister's  arm, 
And  sleeping,  haply  dream  her  arm  is  mine. 

"  Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  Emilia's  arm ; 
Emilia,  fairer  than  all  else  but  thou, 
For  thou  art  fairer  than  all  else  that  is. 

"Sleep,  breathing  health  and  peace  upon  her  breast 

VOL.   I  l"? 


250  AITDLEY    COURT. 

Sleep,  breathing  love  and  trust  a.gain-^l  her  lip  : 
1  go  to-night :  I  come  to-morrow  moni. 

"  1  go,  but  1  return  :  1  would  1  were 
The  pilot  of  the  darkness  and  the  dream. 
Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  love,  and  dream  of  me. 

So  sang  we  each  to  either,  Francis  Hale, 
The  farmer's  son  who  lived  across  the  bay, 
My  friend ;  and  I,  that  having  wherewithal, 
And  in  the  fallow  leisure  of  my  life. 
Did  what  I  would ;  but  ere  the  night  we  rose 
And  sauntered  home  beneath  a  moon,  that,  just 
In  crescent,  dimly  rained  about  the  leaf 
Twilights  of  airy  silver,  till  we  reached 
The  limit  of  the  hills  ;  and  as  we  sank 
From  rock  to  rock  upon  the  glooming  quay, 
The  tovm  was  hushed  beneath  us  :  lower  dowrv 
The  bay  was  oily -calm ;  the  harbor-buoy 
With  one  green  sparkle  ever  and  anon 
Dipt  by  itself,  and  we  were  glad  at  heart. 


WALKING    TO   THE    MAIL. 


Jokn.  I  'm  glad  I  walked.  How  fresh  the  meadows  look 
Above  the  river,  and,  but  a  month  ago. 
The  whole  hill-side  was  redder  than  a  fox. 
Is  yon  plantation  where  this  byway  joins 
The  turnpike  ? 

James.  Yes. 

Joh7i.  And  when  does  this  come  by  ? 
James.  The  mail  ?     At  one  o'clock. 

John.  What  is  it  now  ? 
James.  A  quarter  to. 

John.  Whose  house  is  that  I  see 
Beyond  the  watermills  ? 

James.  Sir  Edward  Head's : 
But  he 's  abroad :  the  place  is  to  be  sold. 
John.  O,  his.     He  was  not  broken. 

James.   No  sir,  he, 
Vexed  with  a  morbid  devil  in  his  blood 
That  veiled  the  world  with  jaundice,  hid  his  face 
From  all  men,  and  commercing  with  himself, 


252  WALKING    TO    THE    BIAIL. 

He  lost  the  sense  that  handles  daily  life  — 
That  keeps  us  all  in  order  more  or  less  — 
And  sick  of  home,  went  overseas  for  change. 

John.  And  whither  ? 

James.  Nay,  who  knows  ?  he 's  here  and  there 
But  let  him  go ;  his  devil  goes  with  him, 
As  well  as  with  his  tenant,  Jocky  Dawes, 

John.  What's  that? 

James.  You  saw  the  man  but  yesterday : 
He  picked  the  pebble  from  your  horse's  foot. 
His  house  was  haunted  by  a  jolly  ghost, 
That  rummaged  like  a  rat.     No  servant  staid  : 
The  farmer  vext  packs  up  his  beds  and  chairs, 
And  all  his  household  stuff;  and  with  his  boy 
Betwixt  his  knees,  his  wife  upon  the  tilt, 
Sets  forth,  and  meets  a  friend  who  hails  him,  "  What ! 
You  're  flitting!  "    "  Yes,  we  're  flitting,"  says  the  ghost, 
(For  they  had  packed  the  thing  among  the  beds.) 
"  0  well,"  says  he,  "you  flitting  with  us  too  — 
Jack,  turn  the  horses'  heads  and  home  again." 

John.  He  left  his  wife  behind;  for  so  I  heard. 

Jamjes.  He  left  her,  yes.     I  met  my  lady  once  : 
A  woman  like  a  butt,  and  harsh  as  crabs. 

John.  0  yet  but  I  remember,  ten  years  back  — 
'T  is  now  at  least  ten  years  —  and  then  she  was  — 
You  could  not  lisfht  upon  a  sweeter  thing: 


WALKING    TO    THE    MAIL.  253 

A  body  slight  and  round,  and  like  a  pear 
In  growing,  modest  eyes,  a  hand,  a  foot 
Lessening  in  perfect  cadence,  and  a  skin 
As  clean  and  white  as  privet  when  it  flowers. 

James.  Ay,  ay,  the  blossom  fades,  and  they  that  loved 
At  first  like  dove  and  dove  were  cat  and  dog. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  a  cottager, 
Out  of  her  sphere.     What  betwixt  shame  and  pride, 
New  things  and  old,  himself  and  her,  she  soured 
To  what  she  is :  a  nature  never  kind ! 
Like  men,  like  manners  :  like  breeds  like,  they  say. 
Kind  nature  is  the  best :  those  manners  next 
That  fit  us  like  a  nature  second-hand ; 
Which  are  indeed  the  manners  of  the  great, 

John.  But  I  had  heard  it  was  this  bill  that  past, 
And  fear  of  change  at  home,  that  drove  him  hence. 

James.  That  was  the  last  drop  in  the  cup  of  gall. 
I  once  was  near  him  when  his  bailiff  brought 
A  Chartist  pike.     You  should  have  seen  him  wince 
As  from  a  venomous  thing  :  he  thought  himself 
A  mark  for  all,  and  shuddered,  lest  a  cry 
Should  break  his  sleep  by  night,  and  his  nice  eyes 
Should  see  the  raw  mechanic's  bloody  thumbs 
Sweat  on  his  blazoned  chairs  ;  but,  sir,  you  know 
That  these  two  parties  still  divide  the  world  — 
Of  those  that  want,  and  those  that  have  :  and  still 


254  WALKING   TO    THE    MAIL. 

The  same  old  sore  breaks  out  from  age  to  age 
With  much  the  same  result.     Now  I  myself, 
A  Tory  to  the  quick,  was  as  a  boy 
Destructive,  when  I  had  not  what  I  would. 
I  was  at  school  —  a  college  in  the  South  : 
There  lived  a  flayflint  near ;  we  stole  his  fruit. 
His  hens,  his  eggs ;  but  there  was  law  for  us  ; 
We  paid  in  person.     He  had  a  sow,  sir.     She, 
With  meditative  grunts  of  much  content, 
Lay  great  with  pig,  wallowing  in  sun  and  mud. 
By  night  we  dragged  her  to  the  college  tower 
From  her  warm  bed,  and  up  the  corkscrew  stair 
With  hand  and  rope  we  haled  the  groaning  sow, 
And  on  the  leads  we  kept  her  till  she  pigged. 
Large  range  oi  prospect  had  the  mother  sow, 
And  but  for  daily  loss  of  one  she  loved, 
As  one  by  one  we  took  them  —  but  for  this  — 
As  never  sow  was  higher  in  this  world  — 
Might  have  been  happy :  but  what  lot  is  pure  ? 
We  took  them  all,  till  she  was  left  alone 
Upon  her  tower,  the  Niobe  of  swine. 
And  so  returned  unfarrowed  to  her  sty. 
John.  They  found  you  out  ? 
James.  Not  they. 

John.  Well  —  after  all  — 
What  know  we  of  the  secret  of  a  man  ? 


WALKING    TO    THE    MAIL.  255 

His  nerves  were  wrong.     What  ails  us  who  are  sound, 
That  we  should  mimic  this  raw  fool  the  world, 
Which  charts  us  all  in  its  coarse  blacks  or  whites, 
As  ruthless  as  a  baby  with  a  worm,  ' 

As  cruel  as  a  schoolboy  ere  he  grows 
To  Pity  —  more  from  ignorance  than  will. 
But  put  your  best  foot  forward,  or  I  fear 
That  we  shall  miss  the  mail :  and  here  it  comes 
With  five  at  top :  as  quaint  a  four-in-hand 
As  you  shall  see  —  three  pyebalds  and  a  roan. 


ST.    SIMEON    STYLITES 


Although  I  be  the  basest  of  mankind, 

From  scalp  to  sole  one  slough  and  crust  of  sin, 

Unfit  for  earth,  unfit  for  heaven,  scarce  meet 

For  troops  of  devils,  mad  Avith  blasphemy, 

I  will  not  cease  to  grasp  the  hope  I  hold 

Of  saintdom,  and  to  clamor,  mourn  and  sob, 

Battering  the  gates  of  heaven  with  storms  of  prayer, 

Have  mercy.  Lord,  and  take  away  my  sin. 

Let  this  avail,  just,  dreadful,  mighty  God, 
This  not  be  all  in  vain,  that  thrice  ten  years, 
Thrice  multiplied  by  superhuman  pangs, 
In  hungers  and  in  thirsts,  fevers  and  cold, 
In  coughs,  aches,  stitches,  ulcerous  throes  and  cramps, 
A  sign  betwixt  the  meadow  and  the  cloud, 
Patient  on  this  tall  pillar  I  have  borne 
Eain,  wind,  frost,  heat,  hail,  damp,  and  sleet,  and  snow ; 
And  1  had  hoped  that  ere  this  period  closed 
Thou  wouldst  have  caught  me  up  into  thy  rest, 
Denying  not  these  weather-beaten  limbs 
The  meed  of  saints,  the  white  robe  and  the  palm. 

O  take  the  meaning,  Lord :  I  do  not  breathe. 


ST.   SI5IKOX   STYLITES.  257 

Not  whisper,  any  murmur  of  complaint. 
Pain  heaped  ten-hundred-fold  to  this,  were  still 
Less  burthen,  by  ten-hundred-fold,  to  bear. 
Than  were  those  lead-like  tons  of  sin,  that  crushed 
My  spirit  flat  before  thee. 

0  Lord,  Lord, 
Thou  knowest  I  bore  this  better  at  the  first, 
For  I  was  strong-  and  hale  of  body  then  ; 
And  though  my  teeth,  which  now  are  dropt  away, 
Would  chatter  with  the  cold,  and  all  my  beard 
Was  tagged  with  icy  fringes  in  the  moon, 
I  drowned  the  whoopings  of  the  owl  with  sound 
Of  pious  hymns  and  psalms,  and  sometimes  saw 
An  angel  stand  and  watch  me,  as  I  sang. 
Now  am  I  feeble  grown  :  my  end  draws  nigh  — ■ 
I  hope  my  end  draws  nigh  :  half  deaf  I  am, 
So  that  I  scarce  can  hear  the  people  hum 
About  the  column's  base,  and  almost  blind, 
And  scarce  can  recognize  the  fields  I  know. 
And  both  my  thighs  are  rotted  with  the  dew, 
Yet  cease  I  not  to  clamor  and  to  cry, 
While  my  stifl"  spine  can  hold  my  weary  head. 
Till  all  my  limbs  drop  piecemeal  from  the  stone, 
Have  mercy,  mercy  :  take  away  my  sin  . 
O  Jesus,  if  thou  wilt  not  save  my  soul. 
Who  may  be  saved  ?  who  is  it  may  be  saved  ? 


258  ST.    SIMEON    STYLITES. 

Who  may  be  made  a  saint,  if  T  fail  here  ? 
Show  me  the  man  hath  suffered  more  than  I. 
For  did  not  all  thy  martyrs  die  one  death  ? 
For  either  they  were  stoned,  or  crucified, 
Or  burned  in  fire,  or  boiled  in  oil,  or  sawn 
In  twain  beneath  the  ribs ;  but  I  die  here 
To-day,  and  whole  years  long,  a  life  of  death. 
Bear  witness,  if  I  could  have  found  a  way 
(And  heedfully  I  sifted  all  my  thought) 
More  slowly-painful  to  subdue  this  home 
Of  sin,  my  flesh,  which  I  despise  and  hate, 
I  had  not  stinted  practice,  oh  my  God ! 

For  not  alone  this  pillar-punishment, 
Not  this  alone  I  bore  :  but  while  I  lived 
In  the  white  convent  down  the  valley  there, 
For  many  weeks  about  my  loins  I  wore 
The  rope  that  haled  the  buckets  from  the  well, 
Twisted  as  tight  as  I  could  knot  the  noose ; 
And  spake  not  of  it  to  a  single  soul, 
Until  the  ulcer,  eating  through  my  skin, 
Betrayed  my  secret  penance,  so  that  all 
My  brethren  marvelled  greatly.     More  than  this 
I  bore,  whereof,  oh  God,  thou  knowest  all. 

Three  winters,  that  my  soul  might  grow  to  thee, 
I  lived  up  there  on  yonder  mountain  side. 
My  right  leg  chained  into  the  crag,  I  lay 


ST.    SIMEON    STYLITES.  259 

Pent  in  a  roofless  close  of  ragged  stones ; 
Inswathed  sometimes  in  wandering  mist,  and  twice 
Blacked  with  thy  branding  thunder,  and  sometimes 
Sucking  the  damps  for  drink,  and  eating  not, 
Except  the  spare  chance-gift  of  those  that  came 
To  touch  my  body  and  be  healed,  and  live  : 
And  they  say  then  that  I  worked  miracles, 
Whereof  my  fame  is  loud  amongst  mankind. 
Cured  lameness,  palsies,  cancers.     Thou,  oh  God, 
Knowest  alone  whether  this  was  or  no. 
Have  mercy,  mercy ;  cover  all  my  sin ! 

Then,  that  I  might  be  more  alone  with  thee, 
Three  years  I  lived  upon  a  pillar  high 
Six  cubits,  and  three  years  on  one  of  twelve  ; 
And  twice  three  years  I  crouched  on  one  that  rose 
Twenty  by  measure  ;  last  of  all,  I  grew 
Twice  ten  long  weary,  weary  years  to  this. 
That  numbers  forty  cubits  from  the  soil. 

I  think  that  I  have  borne  as  much  as  this  — 
Or  else  I  dream  —  and  for  so  long  a  time, 
If  I  may  measure  time  by  yon  slow  light, 
And  this  high  dial,  which  my  sorrow  crowns  — 
So  much  —  even  so. 

And  yet  I  know  not  well, 
For  that  the  evil  ones  come  here,  and  say, 
"  Fall  down,  oh  Simeon  :  thou  hast  suffered  long 


260  ST.    SIMEON    STYLITES, 

For  ages  and  for  ages  !  "    Then  they  prate 
Of  penances  I  cannot  have  gone  through, 
Perplexing  me  with  lies ;  and  oft  I  fall, 
Maybe  for  months,  in  such  blind  lethargies. 
That  Heaven,  and  Earth,  and  Time  are  choked. 

But  yet 
Bethink  thee.  Lord,  while  thou  and  all  the  saints 
Enjoy  themselves  in  heaven,  and  men  on  earth 
House  in  the  shade  of  comfortable  roofs. 
Sit  with  their  wives  by  fires,  eat  wholesome  food, 
And  wear  warm  clothes,  and  even  beasts  have  stalls, 
1,  'tween  the  spring  and  downfall  of  the  light, 
Bow  down  one  thousand  and  two  hundred  times, 
To  Christ,  the  Virgin  Mother,  and  the  Saints  ; 
Or  in  the  night,  after  a  little  sleep, 
I  wake  :  the  chill  stars  sparkle  ;  I  am  wet 
With  drenching  dews,  or  stiff  with  crackling  frost. 
I  wear  an  undressed  goatskin  on  my  back ; 
A  grazing  iron  collar  grinds  my  neck ; 
And  in  my  weak,  lean  arms  I  lift  the  cross, 
And  strive  and  wrestle  with  thee  till  I  die  : 
O  mercy,  mercy  !  wash  away  my  sin  ! 

O  Lord,  thou  knowest  what  a  man  I  am  ; 
A  sinful  man,  conceived  and  born  in  sin  : 
'T  is  their  ov/n  doing ;  this  is  none  of  mine  ; 
Lay  it  not  to  me.     Am  I  to  blame  for  this. 


ST.    SIMEON    STYLITES. 


261 


That  here  come  those  that  worship  me  ?     Ha  !  ha  ! 
They  think  that  I  am  somewhat.     What  am  I  ? 
The  silly  people  take  me  for  a  saint, 
And  bring  me  offerings  of  fruit  and  flowers  ; 
And  Ij  in  truth  (thou  wilt  bear  witness  here) 
Have  all  in  all  endured  as  much,  and  more 
Than  many  just  and  holy  men,  whose  names 
Are  registered  and  calendared  for  saints. 

Good  people,  you  do  ill  to  kneel  to  me. 
What  is  it  I  can  have  done  to  merit  this  ? 
[  am  a  sinner  viler  than  you  all. 
It  may  be  I  have  wrought  some  miracles. 
And  cured  some  halt  and  maimed  ;  but  what  of  that  ? 
It  may  be,  no  one,  even  among  the  saints. 
May  match  his  pains  with  mine  ;  but  what  of  that  ? 
Yet  do  not  rise  :  for  you  may  look  on  me. 
And  in  your  looking  you  may  kneel  to  God. 
Speak !  is  there  any  of  you  halt  or  maimed  ? 
[  think  you  know  I  have  some  power  with  Heaven 
From  my  long  penance  :  let  him  speak  his  wish. 

Yes,  I  can  heal  him.     Power  goes  forth  from  me. 
They  say  that  they  are  healed.      Ah,  hark  !  they  shout 
"  St.  Simeon  Stylites."     Why,  if  so, 
God  reaps  a  harvest  in  me.     O  my  soul, 
God  reaps  a  harvest  in  thee.     If  this  be, 
Can  I  work  miracles  and  not  be  saved  ? 


262  ST.    SIMEON    STYLITES. 

This  is  not  told  of  any.     They  were  saints. 

It  cannot  be  but  that  I  shall  be  saved ; 

V^ea,  crowned  a  saint.     They  shout,  "  Behold  a  saint  I 

And  lower  voices  saint  me  from  above. 

Courage,  St.  Simeon !     This  dull  chrysalis 

Cracks  into  shining  wings,  and  hope  ere  death 

Spreads  more  and  more  and  more,  that  God  hath  now 

Sponged  and  made  blank  of  crimeful  record  all 

My  mortal  archives. 

O  my  sons,  my  sons, 
I,  Simeon  of  the  pillar,  by  surname 
Stylites,  among  men  ;  I,  Simeon, 
The  watcher  on  the  column  till  the  end ; 
I,  Simeon,  whose  brain  the  sunshine  bakes  ; 
1,  whose  bald  brows  in  silent  hours  become 
Unnaturally  hoar  with  rime,  do  now 
From  my  high  nest  of  penance  here  proclaim 
That  Pontius  and  Iscariot  by  my  side 
Showed  like  fair  seraphs.   ■  On  the  coals  I  lay, 
A  vessel  full  of  sin :   all  hell  beneath 
Made  me  boil  over.     Devils  plucked  my  sleeve ; 
Abaddon  and  Asmodeus  caught  at  me. 
1  smote  them  with  the  cross ;  they  swarmed  again, 
in  bed  like  monstrous  apes  they  crushed  my  chest. 
They  flapped  my  light  out  as  I  read :  I  saw 
Their  faces  grow  between  me  and  rny  book : 


ST.    SIMEON    STYLITES.  263 

With  colt-like  whinny  and  with  hoggish  whine 
They  burst  my  prayer.     Yet  this  way  was  left, 
And  by  this  way  I  'scaped  them.     Mortify 
Your  flesh,  like  me,  with  scourges  and  with  thorns ; 
Smite,  shrink  not,  spare  not.     If  it  may  be,  fast 
Whole  Lents,  and  pray.     I  hardly,  with  slow  steps  — 
^^  ith  slow,  faint  steps,  and  much  exceeding  pain  — 
Have  scrambled  past  those  pits  of  fire,  that  still 
.Sing  m  mine  ears.     But  yield  not  me  the  praise : 
God  only  through  his  bounty  hath  thought  fit. 
Among  the  powers  and  princes  of  this  world. 
To  make  me  an  example  to  mankind, 
Which  few  can  reach  to.     Yet  1  do  not  say 
But  that  a  time  may  come  —  yea,  even  now. 
Now,  now,  his  footsteps  smite  the  threshold  stairs 
Of  life  —  I  say,  that  time  is  at  the  doors 
When  you  may  worship  me  without  reproach  ; 
For  I  will  leave  my  relics  in  your  land. 
And  you  may  carve  a  shrine  about  my  dust. 
And  burn  a  fragrant  lamp  before  my  bones, 
When  I  am  gathered  to  the  glorious  saints. 

While  I  spake  then,  a  sting  of  shrewdest  pain 
Ran  shrivelling  through  me,  and  a  cloudlike  change, 
In  passing,  with  a  grosser  film  made  thick 
These  heavy,  homy  eyes.     The  end  !  the  end  ! 
Surely  the  end  !     What 's  here  ?  a  shape,  a  shade, 


264  ST.    SIMEON    STYLITES. 

A  flash  of  light.     Is  that  the  angel  there 

That  holds  a  crown  ?     Come,  blessed  brother,  come. 

1  know  thy  glittering  face.     I  waited  long ; 

My  brows  are  ready.     What !  deny  it  now  ? 

^ay,  draw,  draw,  draw  nigh.     So  I  clutch  it.     Christ  I 

'T  is  gone :  't  is  here  again ;  the  crown !  the  crown  ! 

So  now  't  is  fitted  on  and  grows  to  me, 

And  from  it  melt  the  dews  of  Paradise, 

Sweet !  sweet !  spikenard,  and  balm,  and  frankincense. 

Ah  !  let  me  not  be  fooled,  sweet  saints  :  I  trust 

That  1  am  whole,  and  clean,  and  meet  for  Heaven. 

Speak,  if  there  be  a  priest,  a  man  of  God, 
Among  you  there,  and  let  him  presently 
Approach,  and  lean  a  ladder  on  the  shaft, 
And  climbing  up  into  my  airy  home, 
Deliver  me  the  blessed  sacrament ; 
For  by  the  warning  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
I  prophesy  that  I  shall  die  to-night, 
A  quarter  before  twelve. 

But  thou,  oh  Lord, 
Aid  all  this  foolish  people ;  let  them  take 
Example,  pattern  :  lead  them  to  thy  light. 


THE    SEA-FAIRIES. 


Slow  sailed  the  weary  mariners,  and  saw, 
Betwixt  the  green  brink  and  the  running  foam, 
Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms  prest 
To  little  harps  of  gold ;  and,  while  they  mused, 
Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  fear, 
Shrill  music  reached  them  on  the  middle  sea. 

Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither  away  ?   fly  no 

more. 
Whither  away  from  the  high  green  field,  and  the  happy 

blossoming  shore  ? 
Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  fountain  calls; 
Down  shower  the  gambolling  waterfalls 
From  wandering  over  the  lea : 
Out  of  the  live-green  heart  of  the  dells 
They  freshen  the  silvery-crimson  shells. 
And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clover-hill  swells 
High  over  the  full-toned  sea  : 
O  hither,  come  hither,  and  furl  your  sails. 
Come  hither  to  me  and  to  me  i 
VOL.    I.  18 


266  THE    SEA-FAIKIES. 

Hither,  come  hither,  and  frolic  and  play; 
Here  it  is  only  the  mew  that  wails ; 
We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day : 
Mariner,  mariner,  furl  your  sails, 
For  here  are  the  blissful  downs  and  dales, 
And  merrily,  merrily  carol  the  gales. 
And  the  spangle  dances  in  bight  and  bay, 
And  the  rainbow  forms  and  flies  on  the  land 
Over  the  islands  free ; 

And  the  rainbow  lives  in  the  curve  of  the  sand,* 
Hither,  come  hither  and  see  ; 
And  the  rainbow  hangs  on  the  poising  wave. 
And  sweet  is  the  color  of  cove  and  cave, 
And  sweet  shall  your  welcome  be ; 
O  hither,  come  hither,  and  be  our  lords, 
For  merry  brides  are  we  ! 

We  will  kiss  sweet  kisses,  and  speak  sweet  words : 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  jubilee  ! 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
When  the  sharp,  clear  twang  of  the  golden  chords 
Runs  up  the  ridged  sea  ! 
Who  can  light  on  as  happy  a  shore 
All  the  world  o'er,  all  the  world  o'er  ? 
Whither  away  ?  listen  and  stay  :   mariner,  mariner,  fly 
no  more. 


THE   DESERTED    HOUSE. 

> 
1. 

Life  and  Thought  have  gone  away- 
Side  by  side, 
Leaving  door  and  windows  wide  : 

Careless  tenants  they . 

2. 

All  within  is  dark  as  night : 
In  the  windows  is  no  light ; 
And  no  murmur  at  the  door, 
So  frequent  on  its  hinge  before. 

3. 

Close  the  door,  the  shutters  close, 

Or  through  the  windows  we  shall  see 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 

Of  the  dark,  deserted  house. 


268  THE    DESERTED   HOUSE. 

4. 

Come  away  ;  no  more  of  mirth 

Is  here  or  merry-making  sound. 

The  house  was  builded  of  the  earth, 
And  shall  fall  again  to  ground. 

5. 

Come  away  ;  for  Life  and  Thought 
Here  no  longer  dwell ; 
But  in  a  city  glorious  — 
A  great  and  distant  city  —  have  bought 
A  mansion  incorruptible. 

Would  they  could  have  stayed  with  us ' 


EDWIN   MORRIS; 

OR,   THE   LAKE. 

0  ME,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake, 

My  sweet,  wild,  fresh  three  quarters  of  a  year, 

My  one  Oasis  in  the  dust  and  drouth 

Of  city  life  !     I  was  a  sketcher  then  ; 

See  here,  my  doing :  curves  of  mountain,  bridge, 

Boat,  island,  ruins  of  a  castle,  built 

When  men  knew  how  to  build,  upon  a  rock, 

With  turrets  lichen-gilded  like  a  rock ; 

And  here,  new-comers  in  an  ancient  hold, 

New-comers  from  the  Mersey,  millionaires, 

Here  lived  the  Hills,  —  a  Tudor-chimneyed  bulk 

Of  mellow  brickwork  on  an  isle  of  bowers. 

0  me !  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake 
With  Edwin  Morris  and  with  Edward  Bull, 
The  curate  ;  he  was  fatter  than  his  cure. 

But  Edwin  Morris,  he  that  knew  the  names, 
Long  learned  names  of  agaric,  moss  and  fern, 


270  EDWIN    MORRIS  ; 

Who  forged  a  thousand  theories  of  the  rocks, 
Who  taught  me  how  to  skate,  to  row,  to  swim, 
Who  read  me  rhymes  elaborately  good, 
His  own,  —  I  called  him  Crichton,  for  he  seemed 
All-perfect,  finished  to  the  finger  nail. 

And  once  I  asked  him  of  his  early  life, 
And  his  first  passion ;  and  he  answered  me  ; 
And  well  his  words  became  him  :  was  he  not 
A  full-celled  honeycomb  of  eloquence 
Stored  from  all  flowers  ?     Poet-like  he  spoke  : 

"  My  love  for  Nature  is  as  old  as  I ; 
But  thirty  moons,  one  honeymoon  to  that, 
And  three  rich  sennights  more,  my  love  for  her. 
My  love  for  Nature  and  my  love  for  her, 
Of  different  ages,  like  twin-sisters  grew. 
Twin-sisters  differently  beautiful. 
To  some  full  music  rose  and  sank  the  sun. 
And  some  full  music  seemed  to  move  and  change 
With  all  the  varied  changes  of  the  dark, 
And  either  twilight  and  the  day  between  ; 
For  daily  hope  fulfilled,  to  rise  again 
Revolving  toward  fulfilment,  made  it  sweet 
To  walk,  to  sit,  to  sleep,  to  wake,  to  breathe." 

Or  this  or  something  like  to  this  he  spoke. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate.  EdwarH  H'llL 


OR,  THB    LAKE.  271 

'*  I  take  it,  God  made  the  woman  for  the  man, 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the  world. 
A  pretty  face  is  well,  and  this  is  well, 
To  have  a  dame  indoors  that  trims  us  up, 
And  keeps  us  tight ;  but  these  unreal  ways 
Seem  but  the  theme  of  writers,  and,  indeed. 
Worn  threadbare.     Man  is  made  of  solid  stuff. 
I  say,  God  made  the  woman  for  the  man. 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the  world." 

"  Parson,"  said  I,  "  you  pitch  the  pipe  too  low  ; 
But  I  have  sudden  touches,  and  can  run 
My  faith  beyond  my  practice  into  his ; 
Though  if,  in  dancing  after  Letty  Hill, 
I  do  not  hear  the  bells  upon  my  cap, 
I  scarce  hear  other  music  ;  yet  say  on. 
What  should  one  give  to  light  on  such  a  dreaui  ?  " 
I  asked  him  half-sardonically. 

"  Give  ? 
Give  all  thou  art,"  he  answered,  and  a  light 
Of  laughter  dimpled  in  his  swarthy  cheek  ; 
"  I  would  have  hid  her  needle  in  my  heart, 
To  save  her  little  finger  from  a  scratch 
No  deeper  than  the  skin ;  my  ears  could  hear 
Her  lightest  breaths  ;  her  least  remark  was  worth 
The  experience  of  the  wise.     I  went  and  came  ; 


272  EDWIN  morris; 

Her  voice  fled  always  through  the  summer  land , 
I  spoke  her  name  alone.     Thrice-happy  days  ! 
The  flower  of  each,  those  moments  when  we  met, 
The  crown  of  all,  we  met  to  part  no  more." 

Were  not  his  words  delicious,  I  a  beast 
To  take  them  as  I  did  ?  but  something  jarred  ; 
Whether  he  spoke  too  largely ;  that  there  seemed 
A  touch  of  something  false,  some  self-conceit, 
Or  over-smoothness  ;  howsoe'er  it  was, 
He  scarcely  hit  my  humor,  and  I  said  : 

"  Friend  Edwin,  do  not  think  yourself  alone 
Of  all  men  happy.     Shall  not  Love  to  me, 
As  in  the  Latin  song  I  learnt  at  school, 
Sneeze  out  a  full  God-bless-you  right  and  left  ? 
But  you  can  talk ;  yours  is  a  kindly  vein  ; 
I  have,  I  think,  —  Heaven  knows,  —  as  much  within 
Have,  or  should  have,  but  for  a  thought  or  two, 
That,  like  a  purple  beech  among  the  greens, 
Looks  out  of  place  ;  't  is  from  no  want  in  her : 
It  is  my  shyness,  or  my  self-distrust. 
Or  something  of  a  wayward  modern  mind 
Dissecting  passion.     Time  will  set  me  right." 

So  spoke  I,  knowing  not  the  things  that  were. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward  Bull : 


OR,  THE    LAKE.  273 

"  God  made  the  woman  for  the  use  of  man, 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the  world." 
And  I  and  Edwin  laughed  ;  and  now  we  paused 
About  the  windings  of  the  marge  to  hear 
The  soft  wind  blowing  over  meadowy  holms 
And  alders,  garden-isles ;  and  now  we  left 
The  clerk  behind  us,  I  and  he,  and  ran 
By  ripply  shallows  of  the  lisping  lake, 
Delighted  with  the  freshness  and  the  sound. 

But,  when  the  bracken  rusted  on  their  crags, 
My  suit  had  withered,  nipt  to  death  by  him 
That  was  a  God,  and  is  a  lawyer's  clerk, 
The  rentroll  Cupid  of  our  rainy  isles, 
'T  is  true  we  met ;  one  hour  I  had,  no  more  , 
She  sent  a  note,  the  seal  an  Elle  vous  suit, 
The  close  "  Your  Letty,  only  yours ;  "  and  this 
Thrice  underscored.     The  friendly  mist  of  morn 
Clung  to  the  lake.     I  boated  over,  ran 
My  craft  aground,  and  heard  with  beating  heart 
The  Sweet-Gale  rustle  round  the  shelving  keel ; 
And  out  I  stept,  and  up  I  crept ;  she  moved, 
Like  Proserpine  in  Enna,  gathering  flowers  ; 
Then  low  and  sweet  I  whistled  thrice ;  and  she. 
She  turned,  we  closed,  we  kissed,  swore  faith,  I  breathed 
In  some  new  planet ;  a  silent  cousin  stole 


274  EDWIN    MORRIS  ; 

Upon  us  and  departed.    "  Leave,"  she  cried, 

"  0  leave  me  !  "     "  Never,  dearest,  never  ;  here 

I  brave  the  worst ; "  and  while  we  stood  like  fools 

Embracing,  all  at  once  a  score  of  pugs 

And  poodles  yelled  within,  and  out  they  came. 

Trustees  and  aunts  and  uncles.     "  What,  with  him  ! 

"  Go  "  (shrilled  the  cotton-spinning  chorus),  "  him  !  " 

1  choked.     Again  they  shrieked  the  burthen  "  Hiia  ! " 

Again  with  hands  of  wild  rejection,  "  Go  !  — 

Girl,  get  you  in  !  "     She  went,  —  and  in  one  month 

They  wedded  her  to  sixty  thousand  pounds, 

To  lands  in  Kent  and  messuages  in  York, 

And  slight  Sir  Robert  with  his  watery  smile 

And  educated  whisker.     But  for  me. 

They  set  an  ancient  creditor  to  work  : 

It  seems  I  broke  a  close  with  force  and  arms  ; 

There  came  a  mystic  token  from  the  king 

To  greet  the  sheriff,  needless  courtesy  ! 

I  read,  and  fled  by  night,  and  flying  turned ; 

Her  taper  glimmered  in  the  lake  below  ; 

1  turned  once  more,  close-buttoned  to  the  storm ; 

So  left  the  place,  left  Edwin,  nor  have  seen 

Him  since,  nor  heard  of  her,  nor  cared  to  hear. 

Nor  cared  to  hear  ?  perhaps  ;  yet  long  ago 
I  have  pardoned  little  Letty  ;  not  indeed, 


OR,  THE    LAKE.  275 

It  may  be,  for  her  own  dear  sake,  but  this, 
She  seems  a  part  of  those  fresh  days  to  me  ; 
For,  in  the  dust  and  drouth  of  London  life. 
She  moves  among  my  visions  of  the  lake, 
While  the  prime  swallow  dips  his  wing,  or  then 
While  the  gold-lily  blows,  and  overhead 
The  light  cloud  smoulders  on  the  summer  crag. 


TO , 

AiTER   READING   A   LIFE  AISTD   LETTERS. 


-•- 


"  Corsed  be  he  that  moves  my  bones." 

Shakspeare's  Epitaph, 


You  might  have  won  the  Poet's  name, 
If  such  be  worth  the  winning  now, 
And  gained^  a  laurel  for  your  brow 

Of  sounder  leaf  than  I  can  claim  ; 

But  you  have  made  the  wiser  choice, 
A  life  that  moves  to  gracious  ends 
Through  troops  of  unrecording  friends, 

A  deedful  life,  a  silent  voice ; 

And  you  have  missed  the  irreverent  doom 
Of  those  that  wear  the  Poet's  crown ; 
Hereafter  neither  knave  nor  clown 

Shall  hold  their  orgies  at  your  tomb. 


TO    .  277 

For  now  the  Poet  cannot  die, 
Nor  leave  his  music  as  of  old, 
But  round  him,  ere  he  scarce  be  cold, 

Begins  the  scandal  and  the  cry  : 

"  Proclaim  the  faults  he  would  not  show ; 

Break  lock  and  seal ;  betray  the  trust ; 

Keep  nothing  sacred  ;  't  is  but  just 
The  many-headed  beast  should  know." 

Ah,  shameless  !  for  he  did  but  sing 
A  song  that  pleased  us  from  its  worth ; 
No  public  life  was  his  on  earth. 

No  blazoned  statesman  he,  nor  king. 

He  gave  the  people  of  his  best ; 

His  worst  he  kept,  his  best  he  gave. 

My  Shakspeare's  curse  on  clown  and  knave 
Who  will  not  let  his  ashes  rest ! 

Who  make  it  seem  more  sweet  to  be 
The  little  life  of  bank  and  brier. 
The  bird  that  pipes  his  lone  desire 

And  dies  unheard  within  his  tree, 

Than  he  that  warbles  long  and  loud 
And  drops  at  Glory's  temple-gates, 
For  whom  the  carrion  vulture  waits 

To  tear  his  heart  before  the  crowd  ! 


TO  E.  L.,  ON  HIS  TRAVELS  IN  GREECE 


Illyrian  woodlands,  echoing  falls 
Of  water,  sheets  of  summer  glass, 
The  long  divine  Penei'an  pass, 

The  vast  Akrokeraunian  walls, 

Tomohrit,  Athos,  all  things  fair, 
With  such  a  pencil,  such  a  pen. 
You  shadow  forth  to  distant  men, 

I  read  and  felt  that  I  was  there  : 

And  trust  me  while  I  turned  the  page, 
And  tracked  you  still  on  classic  grouml, 
I  grew  in  gladness  till  I  found 

My  spirits  in  the  golden  age. 

For  me  the  torrent  ever  poured 

And  glistened,  —  here  and  there  alone 
The  broad-limbed  Gods  at  randon  thrown 

By  fountain-urns ;  —  and  Naiads  oared 


TO    E.    L.  279 


A  glimmering  shoulder  under  gloom 
Of  cavern  pillars  ;  on  the  swell 
The  silver  lily  heaved  and  fell ; 

And  many  a  slope  was  rich  in  bloom, 

From  him  that  on  the  mountain  lea 
By  dancing  rivulets  fed  his  flocks, 
To  him  who  sat  upon  the  rocks. 

And  fluted  to  the  morning  sea. 


280 


Come  not,  when  I  am  dead, 

To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my  grave, 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head, 

And  vex  the  unhappy  dust  thou  would'st  not  save. 
There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the  plover  cry  ; 
But  thou,  go  by. 

Child,  if  it  were  thine  error  or  thy  crime, 

I  care  no  longer,  being  all  unblest ; 
Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  I  am  sick  of  Time, 

And  I  desire  to  rest. 
Pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  me  where  I  lie  : 
Go  by,  go  by. 


THE    EAGLE, 

A  FRAGMENT. 


He  clasps  the  crag  with  hooked  hands  ; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ringed  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 

The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls  ; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 


IN   MEMORIAM 


Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 

Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy  fiice, 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 

Believing  w^here  we  cannot  prove  ! 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade  ; 

Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and  brute ; 

Thou  madest  Death  ;  and  lo  !  thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 


Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust : 

Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why ; 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die ; 

And  thou  hast  made  him  :  thou  art  just. 

VOL.    I.  19 


282  IN    MEMOKIAM. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 

The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  tho'u  : 
Oui"  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how ; 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day; 

Tney  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be ; 

They  are  but  broken  lights  ol"  thee, 
And  thou,  oh  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith  :  we  cannot  know ; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see  ; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  conies  from  thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness  ;  let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell; 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well. 

May  make  one  music,  as  before. 

But  vaster.     We  are  fools  and  slight ; 

We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear : 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear  ; 

Help  thy  vain  v/orlds  to  bear  thy  light. 


IN    MEMOKIAM.  283 

Forgive  what  seemed  my  sin  in  me ; 

What  seemed  my  worth  since  I  began ; 

For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 
And  not  from  man,  oh  Lord,-  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed, 

Thy  creature,  whom  I  found  so  fair. 
I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

I  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries, 

Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth ; 

Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in  truth, 
And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 

1849. 


IN      MEMORIAM 
A.  H.  H. 

OBHT  irocccxxxin. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  285 


1  HELD  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years, 
And  find  in  losi  a  onhi  to  match  ? 
Or  reach  a  hand  through  time  to  catch 

The  far-off  interest  of  tears  ? 

Let  Love  clasp  Grief,  lest  both  be  drowned, 
Let  darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss  ; 
Ah !  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss, 

To  dance  with  death,  to  beat  the  ground, 

Than  that  the  victor  Hours  should  scorn 
The  long  result  of  love,  and  boast : 
"  Behold  the  man  that  loved  and  lost, 

But  all  he  was  is  overworn." 


286  IN    MEMOKIAM. 


Old  Yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones 
That  name  the  under-lying  dead, 
Thy  fibres  net  the  dreamless  head; 

Thy  roots  are  wrapped  about  the  bones. 

The  seasons  bring  the  flower  agam, 

And  bring  the  firstling  to  the  flock ; 
And  in  the  dusk  of  thee,  the  clock 

Beats  out  the  little  lives  of  men. 

O,  not  for  thee  the  glow,  the  bloom, 
Who  changest  not  in  any  gale ! 
Nor  branding  summer  suns  avail 

To  touch  thy  thousand  years  of  gloom. 

And  gazing  on  the  sullen  tree. 

Sick  for  thy  stubborn  hardihood, 
I  seem  to  fail  from  out  my  blood 

And  grow  incorporate  into  thee. 


IN  jMemoriam.  287 


III. 


O  SORROW,  cruel  fellowship! 

O  Priestess  in  the  vaults  of  Death ! 

0  sweet  and  bitter  in  a  breath, 
What  whispers  from  thy  lying-  lip? 

"  The  stars,"  she  whispers,  "  blindly  run  ; 

A  web  is  woven  across  the  sky  ; 

From  out  waste  places  comes  a  cry, 
And  murmurs  from  the  dying  sun  : 

"  And  all  the  phantom,  Nature,  stands,  — 
With  all  her  music  in  her  tone, 
A  hollow  echo  of  my  own,  — 

A  hollow  form  with  empty  hands." 

And  shall  I  take  a  thing  so  blind. 

Embrace  her  as  my  natural  good ; 
Or  crush  her,  like  a  vice  of  blood, 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  mind  ? 


IN    MEilORIAM. 


IV. 


To  Sleep  I  give  my  powers  away  ; 

My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark ; 

I  sit  within  a  helmless  bark, 
And  with  my  heart  I  muse,  and  say  : 

"O  heart,  how  fares  it  with  thee  now, 

That  thou  shouldst  fail  from  thy  desire, 
Who  scarcely  darest  to  inquire 

What  is  it  makes  me  beat  so  low  ? " 


Something  it  is  which  thou  hast  lost, 

Some  pleasure  from  thine  early  years. 
Break,  thou  deep  vase  of  chilling  tears, 

That  grief  hath  shaken  into  frost ! 

Such  clouds  of  nameless  trouble  cross 
All  night  below  the  darkened  eyes  ; 
With  morning  wakes  the  will,  and  cries, 

"  Thou  shall  not  be  the  fool  of  loss  !  " 


IN    MEMORIAM.  289 


V. 

I  SOMETIMES  hold  it  half  a  sin 

To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel : 
For  words,  like  nature,  half  reveal 

And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 
A  use  in  measured  language  lies  ; 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise, 

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

In  words,  like  weeds,  I  '11  wrap  nie  o'er. 

Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the  cold  ; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  infold 

Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 


290  IX    MEMOKI.VJr. 


VI, 

One  writes,  that  "  Other  friends  remain," 
That  "  Loss  is  common  to  the  race,"  - 
And  common  is  the  commonplace. 

And  vacant  chaff  well  meant  for  grain. 

That  loss  is  common  would  not  make 
My  own  less  bitter,  rather  more  : 
Too  common !     Never  morning  wore 

To  evening,  but  some  heart  did  break. 

O  father,  wheresoe'er  thou  be. 

That  pledgest  now  thy  gallant  son ; 
A  shot,  ere  half  thy  draught  be  done, 

Hath  stilled  the  life  that  beat  from  thee. 

O  mother,  praying  God  will  save 

Thy  sailor,  while  thy  head  is  bowed, 
His  heavy-shotted  hammock-shroud 

Drops  in  his  vast  and  wandering  grave. 


IN    MEMORIAJI.  291 

Ye  know  no  more  than  I  who  wrought 
At  that  last  hour  to  please  him  well ; 
Who  mused  on  all  I  had  to  tell, 

And  something  written,  something  thought ; 

Expecting  still  his  advent  home  ; 
And  ever  met  him  on  his  way 
With  wishes,  thinking,  here  to-day, 

Or  here  to-morrow  will  he  come. 

O,  somewhere,  meek  unconscious  dove, 
That  sittest  'ranging  golden  hair ; 
And  glad  to  find  thyself  so  fair, 

Poor  child,  that  waitest  for  thy  love ! 

For  now  her  father's  chimney  glows 

In  expectation  of  a  guest ; 

And  thinking  "  this  will  please  him  best," 
She  takes  a  ribbon  or  a  rose ; 

For  he  will  see  them  on  to-night ; 

And  with  the  thought  her  color  burns  ; 

And,  having  left  the  glass,  she  turns 
Once  more  to  set  a  ringlet  right ; 


292  IN    MEMOKIAM. 

And,  even  when  she  turned,  the  curse 
Had  fallen,  and  her  future  lord 
Was  drowned  in  passing  through  the  foid, 

Or  killed  in  falling  from  his  horse. 

O,  what  to  her  shall  be  the  end  ? 

And  what  to  me  remains  of  good  ? 

To  her,  perpetual  maidenhood, 
And  unto  me,  no  second  friend. 


IN    MEMOEIAM.  293 


vn. 


Dark  house,  by  which  once  more  I  stand, 
Here  in  the  long  unlovely  street. 
Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 

So  quickly,  waiting  for  a  hand, 

A  hand  that  can  be  clasped  no  more,  — 
Behold  me,  for  I  cannot  sleep, 
And  like  a  guilty  thing  I  creep 

At  earliest  morning  to  the  door. 

He  is  not  here ;  but  far  away 

The  noise  of  life  begins  again, 

And  ghastly  through  the  drizzling  rain 

On  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank  day. 


294  IK    MEilOKIAM. 


VIU. 

A  HAPPY  lover  who  has  come 

To  look  on  her  that  loves  him  well, 
Who  lights,  and  rings  the  gateway  beJ, 

And  learns  her  gone,  and  far  from  home. 

He  saddens,  all  the  magic  light 

Dies  off  at  once  from  bower  and  hall, 
And  all  the  place  is  dark,  and  all 

The  chambers  emptied  of  delight. 

So  find  I  every  pleasant  spot 

In  which  we  two  were  wont  to  meet, 
The  field,  the  chamber,  and  the  street, 

For  all  is  dark,  where  thou  art  not. 

Yet  as  that  other,  wandering  there 
In  those  deserted  walks,  may  find 
A  flower  beat  with  rain  and  wind, 

Which  once  she  fostered  up  with  care ; 


IN    MEMORIAM.  295 

So  seems  it  in  my  deep  regret, 

0  my  forsaken  heart,  with  thee, 
And  this  poor  flower  of  poesy, 

\Miich,  little  cared  for,  fades  not  yet. 

But  since  it  pleased  a  vanished  eye, 

1  go  to  plant  it  on  his  tomb. 
That  if  it  can  it  there  may  bloom, 

Or  dying  there  at  least  may  die. 


296  IN    ME-MORIAM. 


IX. 


Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean  plains, 
With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  remains, 

Spread  ttiy  full  wings,  and  waft  him  o'er ! 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn, 
In  vain ;  a  favorable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirrored  mast,  and  lead 

Through  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn  ! 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor,  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  through  early  light 

Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks ! 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above ; 

Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the  prow ; 

Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps  now. 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love  ! 


XN    MEMOKIAM.  297 


My  Arthur !  whom  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widowed  race  be  run ; 


Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son, 
More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me ! 
VOL.  I.  20 


298  IN    MKMORIAM. 


I  HEAR  the  noise  about  thy  keel ; 

I  hear  the  bell  struck  in  the  night  ; 

I  see  the  cabin-window  bright ; 
I  see  the  sailor  at  the  wheel. 

Thou  bringest  the  sailor  to  his  wife ; 

And  travelled  men  from  foreign  lands ; 

And  letters  unto  trembling  hands  ; 
And,  thy  dark  freight,  a  vanished  life. 

So  bring  him  :  we  have  idle  dreams  : 
This  look  of  quiet  flatters  thus 
Our  home-bred  fancies  :  oh,  to  us, 

The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod, 

That  takes  the  sunshine  and  the  rains. 
Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet  drains 

The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God, 


IN    MEMORIAM.  299 

Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring-  wells 

Should  gulf  him  fathom  deep  in  brine ; 
And  hands  so  often  clasped  in  mine 

Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells. 


300  IN    MEMORIAM. 


XI. 


Calm  is  the  mom,  without  a  sound, 
Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief, 
And  only  through  the  faded  leaf 

The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold, 

And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the  furze, 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold  : 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain, 

That  sweeps,  with  all  its  autumn  bowers, 
And  crowded  farms  and  lessening  towers, 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air. 

These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall ; 

And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 
If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair : 


IN    MEMOKIAM.  301 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 

And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in  rest, 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 


302  i:n  memobiam. 


xn. 

Lo !  as  a  dove  when  up  she  springs, 

To  bear  through  Heaven  a  tale  of  woe 
Some  dolorous  message  knit  below 

The  wild  pulsation  of  her  wings ; 

Like  her  1  go  :  I  cannot  stay  ; 

I  leave  this  mortal  ark  behind, 

A  weight  of  nerves  without  a  mind. 

And  leave  the  cliffs,  and  haste  away 

O'er  ocean  mirrors  rounded  large, 

And  reach  the  glow  of  southern  skies, 
And  see  the  sails  at  distance  rise. 

And  linger  weeping  on  the  marge, 

And  saying,  "  Comes  he  thus,  my  friend  ? 
Is  this  the  end  of  all  my  care  ?  " 
And  circle  moaning  in  the  air  r 

"  Is  this  the  end  ?     Is  this  the  end  ? " 


IN     MKMORIAM.  303 

And  forward  dart  again,  and  play 
About  the  prow,  and  back  return 
To  where  the  body  sits,  and  learn 

That  I  have  been  an  hour  away. 


<J04  IN     ME.MOitlAAl. 


xra. 

Teaks  of  the  widower,  when  he  sees 
A  late-lost  form  that  sleep  reveals, 
And  moves  his  doubtful  arms,  and  feels 

Her  place  is  empty,  fall  like  these, 

Which  weep  a  loss  forever  new, 

A  void  where  heart  on  heart  reposed ; 

And,  where  warm  hands  have  pressed  and  closed, 

Silence,  till  I  be  silent  too. 

Which  weep  the  comrade  of  my  choice, 

An  awful  thought,  a  life  removed, 

The  human-hearted  man  I  loved, 
A  spirit,  not  a  breathing  voice. 

Come,  Time,  and  teach  me  many  years 

I  do  not  suffer  in  a  dream ; 

For  now  so  strange  do  these  things  seem, 
Mine  eyes  have  leisure  for  their  tears 


IN    MEMORIAM.  305 

My  fancies  time  to  rise  on  wing, 

And  glance  about  the  approaching  sails, 

As  though  they  brought  but  merchants'  bales, 

And  not  the  burthen  that  they  bring. 


iOG  IX    ME.VIORIAM. 


XIV, 


If  one  should  bring  me  this  report, 

That  thou  hadst  touched  the  land  to-day, 
And  I  went  down  unto  the  quay. 

And  found  thee  lying  in  the  port  ; 

And  standing,  muffled  round  with  woe. 
Should  see  thy  passengers  in  rank 
Come  stepping  lightly  down  the  plank, 

And  beckoning  unto  those  they  know ; 

And  if  along  with  these  should  come 
The  man  I  held  as  half  divine ; 
Should  strike  a  sudden  hand  in  mine, 

And  ask  a  thousand  things  of  home  ; 

And  I  should  tell  him  all  my  pain, 

And  how  my  life  had  drooped  of  late, 
And  he  should  sorrow  o'er  my  state. 

And  marvel  what  possessed  my  brain  ; 


IX     .MEMOKIAM.  307 

And.  1  perceive  no  touch  of  change, 
No  hint  of  death  in  all  his  frame, 
But  found  him  all  in  all  the  same, 

1  should  not  feel  it  to  be  strange. 


308  IN    MEMORIAM. 


To-night  the  winds  began  to  rise 

And  roar  from  yonder  dropping  day  ; 
The  last  red  leaf  is  whirled  away, 

The  rooks  are  blown  about  the  skies  ; 

The  forest  cracked,  the  waters  curled, 
The  cattle  huddled  on  the  lea ; 
And  wildly  dashed  on  tower  and  tree 

The  sunbeam  strikes  along  the  world ; 

And  but  for  fancies,  which  aver 

That  all  thy  motions  gently  pass 
Athwart  a  plane  of  molten  glass, 

I  scarce  could  brook  the  strain  and  stir 

That  makes  the  barren  branches  loud  ; 
And  but  for  fear  it  is  not  so. 
The  wild  unrest  that  lives  in  woe 

Would  dote  and  pore  on  yonder  cloud 


IN    MEMOEIAM.  309 

That  rises  upward  always  higher, 

And  onward  drags  a  laboring  breast, 
And  topples  round  the  dreary  west, 

A  looming  bastion  fringed  with  fire. 


310  IN    MEMORIAM. 


XVI. 

What  words  are  these  have  fallen  from  me  ? 

Can  calm  despair  and  wild  unrest 

Be  tenants  of  a  single  breast, 
Or  sorrow  such  a  changeling  be  ? 

Or  doth  she  only  seem  to  take 

The  touch  of  change  in  calm  or  storm ; 

But  knows  no  more  of  transient  form 
In  her  deep  self,  than  some  dead  lake 

That  holds  the  shadow  of  a  lark 

Hung  in  the  shadow  of  a  heaven  ? 
Or  has  the  shock,  so  harshly  given. 

Confused  me  like  the  unhappy  bark 

That  strikes  by  night  a  craggy  shelf, 
And  staggers  blindly  ere  she  sink  ? 
And  stunned  me  from  my  power  to  think, 

And  all  my  knowledge  of  myself ; 


IN    MEMORIAM.  311 

And  made  me  that  delirious  man 
Whose  fancy  fuses  old  and  ne^v, 
And  flashes  into  false  and  true, 

And  mingles  all  without  a  plan  ? 


312  IN    MEMOKIAM. 


xvn. 

Thou  comest,  much  wept  for ;  such  a  brenze 
Compelled  thy  canvas,  and  my  prayer 
Was  as  the  whisper  of  an  air 

To  breathe  thee  over  lonely  seas. 

For  I  in  spirit  saw  thee  move 

Through  circles  of  the  bounding  sky ; 

Week  after  week :  the  days  go  by : 
Come  quick,  thou  bringest  all  I  love. 

Henceforth,  wherever  thou  mayst  roam. 
My  blessing,  like  a  line  of  light. 
Is  on  the  waters  day  and  night. 

And  like  a  beacon  guards  thee  home. 

So  may  whatever  tempest  mars 

Mid-ocean  spare  thee,  sacred  bark ; 
And  balmy  drops  in  summer  dark 

Slide  from  the  bosom  of  the  stars. 


IN    MEMOKIAJI.  313 

So  kind  an  office  hath  been  done, 

Such  precious  relics  brought  by  thee  i 
The  dust  of  him  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widowed'  race  be  run. 
VOL.  I.  21 


314  i>f  me:moktam. 


'T  IS  well,  't  is  something,  we  may  stand 
Where  he  in  English  earth  is  laid. 
And  from  his  ashes  may  be  made 

The  violet  of  his  native  land. 

'T  is  little  ;  but  it  looks  in  truth 

As  if  the  quiet  bones  were  blest 
Among  familiar  names  to  rest, 

And  in  the  places  of  his  youth. 

Come,  then,  pure  hands,  and  bear  the  head 
That  sleeps  or  wears  the  mask  of  sleep ; 
And  come,  whatever  loves  to  weep, 

And  hear  the  ritual  of  the  dead. 


Ah !  yet,  even  yet,  if  this  might  be, 

I,  falling  on  his  faithful  heart, 

Would,  breathing  through  his  lips,  impart 
The  life  that  almost  dies  in  me  : 


IN    MEMOKIAM.  315 

That  dies  not,  but  endures  with  pain, 
And  slowly  forms  the  firmer  mind, 
Treasuring  the  look  it  cannot  find, 

The  words  that  are  not  heard  agam. 


31f3  IN    JIEMORIAM. 


XIX. 


The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 

The  darkened  heart  that  beat  no  more ; 

They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore, 
And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills, 
The  salt  sea-water  passes  by, 
And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a  silence  in  the  hills. 

The  Wye  is  hushed  nor  moved  along; 
And  hushed  my  deepest  grief  of  all, 
When,  filled  with  tears  that  cannot  fall, 

1  brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 

The  tide  flows  down,  the  wave  again 
Is  vocal  in  its  wooded  walls  : 
My  deeper  anguish  also  falls, 

And  I  can  speak  a  little  then. 


IN    MEMORIAL.  317 


The  lesser  griefs,  that  may  be  said, 

Tliat  breathe  a  thousand  tender  vows, 
Are  but  as  servants  in  a  house 

Where  lies  the  master  newly  dead  ; 

Who  speak  their  feeling  as  it  is, 

And  weep  the  fulness  from  the  mind : 
"  It  will  be  hard,"  they  say,  "  to  find 

Another  service  such  as  this." 

My  lighter  moods  are  like  to  these, 
That  out  of  words  a  comfort  win ; 
But  there  are  other  griefs  within, 

And  tears  that  at  their  fountain  freeze ; 

For  by  the  hearth  the  children  sit 

Cold  in  that  atmosphere  of  Death, 
And  scarce  endure  to  draw  the  breath, 

Or  like  to  noiseless  phantoms  flit ; 


318  IN    MEJIOKIAM. 

But  open  converse  is  there  none, 
So  much  the  vital  spirits  sink 
To  see  the  vacant  chair,  and  think, 

"How  good!  how  kind!  and  he  is  gone. 


IN     MEMOKIAM.  ol'J 


Xil. 


I  SING  to  him  that  rests  below, 

And,  since  the  grasses  round  me  wave, 
I  take  the  grasses  of  the  grave. 

And  make  them  pipes  whereon  to  blow. 

The  traveller  hears  me  now  and  then, 

And  sometimes  harshly  will  he  speak : 
"  This  fellow  would  make  wealcness  weak, 

And  melt  the  waxen  hearts  of  men." 

Another  answers,  "  Let  him  be  ; 

He  loves  to  make  parade  of  pain, 
That  with  his  piping  he  may  gain 

The  praise  that  comes  to  constancy." 

A  third  is  wroth  :  "  Is  this  an  hour 
For  private  sorrow's  barren  sotig, 
When  more  and  more  the  people  throng 

Tlie  chairs  and  thrones  of  civil  power  ? 


320  IN    MEMOKI.VM. 

"  A  time  to  sicken  and  to  swoon, 

When  science  reaches  forth  her  arms 
To  feel  from  world  to  world,  and  charms 

Her  secret  from  the  latest  moon  ? " 

Behold,  ye  speak  an  idle  thing : 

Ye  never  knew  the  sacred  dust ; 
1  do  but  sing  because  I  must, 

And  pipe  but  as  the  linnets  sing. 

And  unto  one  her  note  is  gay, 

For  now  her  little  ones  have  ranged  : 
And  unto  one  her  note  is  changed. 

Because  her  brood  is  stolen  away. 


IX     il  EM  OKI  AM.  321 


The  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go, 

Which  led  by  tracts  that  pleased  us  well, 
Through  four  sweet  years  arose  and  fell, 

From  flower  to  flower,  from  snow  to  snow. 

And  we  with  singing  cheered  the  way. 
And  crowned  with  all  the  season  lent, 
From  April  on  to  April  went, 

And  glad  at  heart  from  May  to  May. 

But  where  the  path  we  walked  began 
To  slant  the  fifth  autumnal  slope. 
As  we  descended,  following  Hope, 

There  sat  the  Shadow  feared  of  man ; 

Who  broke  our  fair  companionship. 

And  spread  his  mantle  dark  and  cold ; 
And  wrapped  thee  formless  in  the  fold, 

And  dulled  the  murmur  on  thv  lin; 


322  rx   MKMuii'.v;!. 

And  bore  thee  where  I  could  not  see 

Nor  follow,  though  I  walk  in  haste ; 
And  think  that,  somewhere  in  the  waste, 

The  Shadow  sits  and  waits  for  me. 


IN    M.EM;)UIAM.  323 


xxm. 

Now,  sometime?  xn  my  sorrow  shut, 

Or  breaking  into  song  by  fits ; 

Alone,  alone,  to  where  he  sits. 
The  Shadow  cloaked  from  head  to  foot, 

Who  keeps  the  keys  of  all  the  creeds, 
I  wander,  often  falling  lame, 
And  looking  back  to  whence  1  came, 

Or  on  to  where  the  pathway  leads ; 

And  crying,  How  changed  from  where  it  ran 
Through  lands  where  not  a  leaf  was  dumb 
But  all  the  lavish  hills  would  hum 

The  murmur  of  a  happy  Pan  : 

When  each  by  turns  was  guide  to  each. 
And  Fancy  light  from  Fancy  caught, 
And  Thought  leapt  out  to  wed  with  Thought, 

Ere  Thought  could  wed  itself  with  Speech  : 


S24  IN    MEMORIAM. 

And  all  we  met  was  fair  and  good, 

And  all  was  good  that  Time  could  bring, 
And  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 

Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood  : 

And  many  an  old  philosophy 

On  Argive  heights  divinely  sang, 
And  round  us  all  the  thicket  rang 

To  many  a  flute  of  Arcady. 


IX    -MEMORIAM.  325 


xxrv. 

And  was  the  day  of  my  delight 
As  pure  and  perfect  as  I  say  ? 
The  very  source  and  fount  of  Day 

Is  dashed  with  wandering  isles  of  night. 

If  all  was  good  and  fair  we  met, 

This  earth  had  been  the  Paradise 
It  never  looked  to  human  eyes 

Since  Adam  left  his  garden  yet. 

And  is  it  that  the  haze  of  g^rief 

Hath  stretched  my  former  joy  so  great  ? 

The  lovmess  of  the  present  state, 
That  sets  the  past  in  this  relief? 

Or  that  the  past  will  always  win 

A  glory  from  its  being  far ; 

And  orb  into  the  perfect  star 
We  saw  not,  when  we  moved  therein  ? 


326  IN     MEMOlvlA.M. 


XXV. 


I  KNOW  that  this  was  Life,  —  the  track 
Whereon  with  equal  feet  we  fared ; 
And  then,  as  now,  the  day  prepared 

The  dady  burden  for  the  back. 

But  this  it  was  that  made  me  move 
As  light  as  carrier-birds  in  air  : 
I  loved  the  weight  I  had  to  bear, 

Because  it  needed  help  of  Love  ; 

Nor  could  1  weary,  heart  or  limb, 

When  mighty  Love  would  cleave  iu  twain 

The  lading  of  a  single  pain. 
And  part  it,  giving  half  to  him. 


IN     MEMORIA-M.  327 


XXVI, 

Still  onward  winds  the  dreary  way : 
I  with  it ;  for  I  long  to  prove 
No  lapse  of  moons  can  canker  Love, 

Whatever  fickle  tongues  may  say. 

And  if  that  eye  which  vvatches  guilt 

And  goodness,  and  hath  power  to  see 
Within  the  green  the  mouldered  tree, 

And  towers  fallen  as  soon  as  built,  — 

0,  if  indeed  that  eye  foresee, 

Or  see,  (in  Him  is  no  before,) 
In  more  of  life  true  life  no  more, 

And  Love  the  indifference  to  be, 

So  might  I  find,  ere  yet 'the  morn 
Breaks  hither  over  Indian  seas. 
That  Shadow  waiting  vvitli  the  keys, 

To  cloak  me  from  my  proper  scorn. 


328  IX     MEMORIAM. 


xxvu. 

I  ENVY  not,  in  any  moods, 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage, 
The  linnet  bom  within  the  cage, 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods : 

I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 

His  license  in  the  field  of  time. 
Unfettered  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes ; 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest, 

The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth, 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth. 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

1  hold  it  true,  whate'er  befall ; 

I  feel  it,  when  1  sorrow  most ; 

'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  329 


XXVIll. 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ : 
The  moon  is  hid ;  the  night  is  still ; 
The  Christmas  bells  from  hill  to  hill 

Answer  each  other  in  the  mist. 

Four  voices  of  four  hamlets  round, 

From  far  and  near,  on  mead  and  moor, 
Swell  out  and  fail,  as  if  a  door 

Were  shut  between  me  and  the  sound  : 

Each  voice  four  changes  on  the  wind, 
That  now  dilate,  and  now  decrease. 
Peace  and  good-will,  good-will  and  peace. 

Peace  and  good-will,  to  all  mankind. 

This  year  I  slept  and  woke  with  pain, 
I  almost  wished  no  more  to  wake, 
And  that  my  hold  on  life  would  break 

Before  F  heard  those  bplls  again  : 

L.  I.  22 


330  IN    MEMOKIAM. 


But  they  my  troubled  spirit  rule, 

For  they  controlled  me  when  a  boy  -, 
They  bring  me  sorrow  touched  with  joy, 

The  merry,  merry  bells  of  Yule. 


IN    MEMOEIAM.  331 


With  such  compelling  cause  to  grieve 
As  daily  vexes  household  peace, 
And  chains  regret  to  his  decease, 

How  dare  we  keep  our  Christmas  eve ; 

Which  brings  no  more  a  welcome  guest 
To  enrich  the  threshold  of  the  night 
With  showered  largess  of  delight, 

lu  dance  and  song  and  game  and  jest. 

Yet  go,  and  while  the  holly-boughs 
Entwine  the  cold  baptismal  font, 
Make  one  wreath  more  for  Use  and  Wont 

That  guard  the  portals  of  the  house  ; 

Old  sisters  of  a  day  gone  by, 

Gray  nurses,  loving  nothing  new ; 
Why  should  they  miss  their  yearly  due 

Before  their  time  ?     They  too  will  die. 


332  IN    MEMORIAM. 


XXX. 

With  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave 

The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth ; 
A  rainy  cloud  possessed  the  earth, 

And  sadly  fell  our  Christmas  eve. 

At  our  old  pastimes  in  the  hall 

We  gambolled,  making  vain  pretence 
Of  gladness,  with  an  awful  sense 

Of  one  mute  Shadow  watching  all. 

We  paused  :  the  winds  were  in  the  beech : 
We  heard  them  sweep  the  ^v^nter  land ; 
And  in  a  circle  hand  in  hand 

Sat  silent,  looking  each  at  each. 

Then  echo-like  our  voices  rang ; 

We  sung,  though  every  eye  was  dim, 
A  merry  song  we  sang  with  him 

Last  year  :  impetuously  we  sang  : 


IN    MEJIOHIAM.  333 

We  ceased :  a  gentler  feeling  crept 

Upon  us  :  surely  rest  is  meet : 

"  They  rest,"  we  said,  "  their  sleep  is  sweet," 
And  silence  followed,  and  we  wept. 

Our  voices  took  a  higher  range ; 

Once  more  we  sang :  "  They  do  not  die, 

Nor  lose  their  mortal  sympathy. 
Nor  change  to  us,  although  they  change  ; 

"  Rapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail, 

With  gathered  power,  yet  the  same, 
Pierces  the  keen  seraphic  flame 

From  orb  to  orb,  from  veil  to  veil. 

"  Rise,  happy  morn !  rise,  holy  morn  ! 

Draw  forth  the  cheerful  day  from  night : 
0  Father !  touch  the  east,  and  light 

The  light  that  shone  when  Hope  was  bom." 


334  IN    MEMOlilAiM. 


TTTT. 

When  Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave, 

And  home  to  Mary's  house  returned, 
Was  this  demanded,  — if  he  yearned 

To  hear  her  weeping  by  his  grave  ? 

"  Where  wert  thou,  brother,  those  four  days  ? " 
There  lives  no  record  of  reply, 
Which,  telling  what  it  is  to  die, 

Had  surely  added  praise  to  praise. 

From  every  house  the  neighbors  met, 

The  streets  were  filled  with  joyful  sound  ; 
A  solemn  gladness  even  crowned 

The  purple  brows  of  Olivet. 

Behold  a  man  raised  up  by  Christ ! 

The  rest  remaineth  unrevealed ; 

He  told  it  not;  or  something  sealed 
The  lips  of  that  Evangelist 


IN    MEMOKIAIM.  335 


XXXU. 

Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer, 
Nor  other  thought  her  mind  admits 
But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he  sits, 

And  he  that  brought  him  back  is  there. 

Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Roves  from  the  living  brother's  face, 

And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed. 

All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears, 

Borne  down  by  gladness  so  complete, 
She  bows,  she  bathes  the  Saviour's  feet 

With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 

Thrice  blest  whose  lives  are  faithful  prayers, 
Whose  loves  in  higher  love  endure  ; 
What  souls  possess  themselves  so  pure, 

Or  is  there  blessedness  like  theirs  ? 


336  IX    MEMORIAM. 


xxxni. 

0  THOU  that  after  toil  and  storm 

Mayst  seem  to  have  reached  a  purer  air. 
Whose  faith  has  centre  everywhere, 

Nor  cares  to  fix  itself  to  form, 

Leave  thou  thy  sister,  when  she  prays, 
Her  early  Heaven,  her  happy  views ; 
Nor  thou  with  shadowed  hint  confuse 

A  life  that  leads  melodious  days. 

Her  faith  through  form  is  pure  as  thine, 
Her  hands  are  quicker  unto  good. 
O,  sacred  be  the  flesh  and  blood 

To  which  she  links  a  truth  divine ! 

See,  thou  that  countest  reason  ripe 
In  holding  by  the  law  within, 
Thou  fail  not  in  a  world  of  sin, 

And  e'en  for  want  of  such  a  type. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  3:57 


xxxrv. 

My  own  dim  life  should  teach  me  this, 
That  life  shall  live  forever  more, 
Else  earth  is  darkness  at  the  core, 

And  dust  and  ashes  all  that  is ; 

This  round  of  green,  this  orb  of  flame. 
Fantastic  beauty  ;  such  as  lurks 
In  some  wild  Poet,  when  he  works 

Without  a  conscience  or  an  aim. 

What  then  were  God  to  such  as  I  ? 

'T  were  hardly  worth  my  while  to  choose 
Of  things  all  mortal,  or  to  use 

A  little  patience  ere  I  die. 

'T  were  best  at  once  to  sink  to  peace, 

Like  birds  the  charming  serpent  draws. 
To  drop  head-foremost  in  the  jaws 

Of  varant  darkness,  and  to  cease. 


338  IN    MEMOKIAM. 


XXXV. 

Yet  if  some  voice  that  man  could  trust 

Should  murmur  from  the  narrow  house : 
The  cheeks  drop  in ;  the  body  bows  ; 

Man  dies :  nor  is  there  hope  in  dust : 

Might  I  not  say,  yet  even  here, 

But  for  one  hour,  oh  Love,  1  strive 
To  keep  so  sweet  a  thing  alive  ? 

But  I  should  turn  mine  ears  and  hear 

The  meanings  of  the  homeless  sea, 

The  sound  of  streams  that,  swift  or  slow, 
Draw  down  Ionian  hills,  and  sow 

The  dust  of  continents  to  be ; 

And  Love  would  answer,  with  a  sigh, 
"  The  sound  of  that  forgetful  shore 
Will  change  my  sweetness  more  and  more. 

Half  dead  to  know  that  I  shall  die," 


IN    ME.MORTAM.  339 

O  me !  what  profits  it  to  put 

An  idle  case  ?     If  Death  were  seen 
At  first  as  Death,  Love  had  not  been, 

Or  been  in  narrowest  working  shut. 

Mere  fellowship  of  sluggish  moods, 

Or  in  his  coarsest  Satyr-shape 

Had  bruised  the  herb  and  crushed  the  grape, 
And  basked  and  battened  in  the  woods. 


340  IN    MEMOUIAM. 


XXXVI. 

Though  truths  in  manhood  darkly  join, 
Deep-seated  in  our  mystic  frame, 
We  ^iield  all  blessing  to  the  name 

Of  Him  that  made  them  current  coin  ; 

For  wisdom  dealt  with  mortal  powers, 

Where  "ruth  in  closest  words  shall  fail. 
When  TiLUii  embodied  in  a  tale 

Shall  enter  in  at  lowly  doors. 

And  so  the  Word  had  breath,  and  wrought 
With  human  hands  the  creed  of  creeds 
In  loveliness  of  perfect  deeds, 

More  strong  than  all  poetic  thought ; 

Which  he  may  read  that  binds  the  sheaf, 
Or  builds  the  house,  or  digs  the  grave, 
And  those  wild  eyes  that  watch  the  wavp 

In  roarinsfs  round  the  coral  reef. 


IX    MEMOKIAM.  341 


Urania  speaks  with  darkened  brow  : 

"  Thou  pratest  here  where  thou  art  least; 
This  faith  has  many  a  purer  priest, 

And  many  an  abler  voice,  than  thou  ; 

"  Go  down  beside  thy  native  rill, 
On  thy  Parnassus  set  thy  feet, 
And  hear  thy  laurel  whisper  sweet 

About  the  ledges  of  the  hill." 

And  my  Melpomene  replies, 

A  touch  of  shame  upon  her  cheek  ■ 
"  I  am  not  worthy  but  to  speak 

Of  thy  prevailing  mysteries; 

"  For  I  am  but  an  earthly  Muse, 
And  owning  but  a  little  art 
To  lull  with  song  an  aching  heart. 

And  render  human  love  his  dues ; 


342  IN    MEMOEIAM. 

"  But  brooding  on  the  dear  one  dead. 
And  all  he  said  of  things  divine, 
(And  dear  as  sacramental  wine 

To  dying  lips  is  all  he  said,) 

"  I  murmured,  as  I  came  along, 

Of  comfort  clasped  in  truth  revealed ; 
And  loitered  in  the  master's  field, 

And  darkened  sanctities  with  song." 


IN    MEMOBIAM.  343 


XXX  VIU, 

With  weary  steps  I  loiter  on, 

Though  always  under  altered  skies 
The  purple  from  the  distance  dies, 

My  prospect  and  horizon  gone. 

No  joy  the  blowing  season  gives, 
The  herald  melodies  of  spring, 
But  in  the  songs  I  love  to  sing 

A  doubtful  gleam  of  solace  lives. 

if  any  care  for  what  is  here 

Survive  in  spirits  rendered  free, 
Then  are  these  songs  I  sing  of  thee 

INot  all  ungrateful  to  thine  ear. 


344  IX    MEMOUIAM. 


XXXIX. 

Could  we  forget  the  widowed  hour, 

And  look  on  Spirits  breathed  away, 
As  on  a  maiden  in  the  day 

When  first  she  wears  her  orange-flower! 

When  crowned  with  blessing  she  doth  rise 
To  take  her  latest  leave  of  home, 
And  hopes  and  light  regrets  that  come 

Make  April  of  her  tender  eyes  ; 

And  doubtful  joys  the  father  !no\'e, 

And  tears  are  on  the  mother's  face. 
As  parting,  with  a  long  embrace, 

She  enters  other  realms  of  love  ; 

Her  ofRce  there  to  rear,  to  teach, 
Becoming,  as  is  meet  and  fit, 
A  link  among  the  days,  to  knit 

The  generations  each  with  each; 


IN    MEMOKIAM.  0-15 

And,  doubtless,  unto  thee  is  given 

A  life  that  bears  immortal  fruit 

In  such  great  offices  as  suit 
The  full-grown  energies  of  heaven. 

Ay  me,  the  difference  I  discern ! 

How  often  shall  her  old  fireside 

Be  cheered  with  tidings  of  the  bride  ! 

How  often  she  herself  return, 

And  tell  them  all  they  would  have  told. 

And  bring  her  babe,  and  make  her  boast, 
Till  even  those  that  missed  her  most 

Shall  count  new  things  as  dear  as  old ! 

But  thou  and  I  have  shaken  hands, 

Till  growing  winters  lay  me  low  ; 

My  paths  are  in  the  fields  1  know. 

And  thine  in  undiscovered  lands. 
VOL.  I.  23 


346  IN    MEMORIAM, 


XL. 

Thy  spirit,  ere  our  fatal  loss, 

Did  ever  rise  from  high  to  higher ; 
As  mounts  the  heavenward  altar-tire, 

As  flies  the  lighter  through  the  gross. 

But  thou  art  turned  to  something  strange, 
And  I  have  lost  the  links  that  bound 
Thy  changes  ;  here  upon  the  ground ; 

No  more  partaker  of  thy  change. 

Deep  folly !  yet  that  this  could  be,  — 

That  1  could  wing  my  will  with  might 
To  leap  the  grades  of  life  and  light. 

And  flash  at  once,  my  friend,  to  thee  : 

For  though  my  nature  rarely  yields 

To  that  vague  fear  implied  in  death  ; 
Nor  shudders  at  the  gulfs  beneath, 

The  bowlings  from  forgotten  fields  ; 


IN    MEMORIAM.  347 

Yet  oft,  when  sundown  skirts  the  moor, 

An  inner  trouble  I  behold, 

A  spectral  doubt  which  makes  me  cold, 
That  I  shall  be  thy  mate  no  more, 

Though  following  with  an  upward  mind 
The  wonders  that  have  come  to  thee, 
Through  all  the  secular  to  be, 

But  evermore  a  life  behind. 


348  IN    MEMORIAM. 


XLI. 


I  VEX  my  heart  with  fancies  dim : 

He  still  outstripped  me  in  the  race ; 
It  was  but  unity  of  place 

That  made  me  dream  1  ranked  with  him. 


And  so  may  Place  retain  us  still, 

And  he  the  much-beloved  again, 
A  lord  of  large  experience,  train 

To  riper  growth  the  mind  and  will : 

And  what  delights  can  equal  those 
That  stir  the  spirit's  iimer  deeps, 
When  one  that  loves,  but  knows  not,  reaps 

A  truth  from  one  that  loves  and  knows  ? 


IN    MEJIOKIAM.  349 


XUI. 

If  Sleep  and  Death  be  truly  one, 
And  every  spirit's  folded  bloom 
Through  all  its  intervital  gloom 

In  some  long  trance  should  slumber  on, 

Unconscious  of  the  sliding  hour, 
Bare  of  the  body,  might  it  last, 
And  silent  traces  of  the  past 

Be  all  the  color  of  the  flower : 

So  then  were  nothing  lost  to  man  ; 
But  that  still  garden  of  the  souls 
In  many  a  figured  leaf  enrolls 

The  total  world  since  life  began  : 

And  love  would  last  as  pure  and  whole 
As  when  he  loved  me  here  in  Time, 
And  at  the  spiritual  prime 

Rewaken  with  the  dawning  soul. 


350  IN    MEMOKIAJI. 


XLIU. 

How  fares  it  with  the  happy  dead  ? 

For  here  the  man  is  more  and  more  j 

But  he  forgets  the  days  before 
God  shut  the  doorways  of  his  head. 

The  days  have  vanished,  tone  and  tint, 
And  yet  perhaps  the  hoarding  sense 
Gives  out,  at  times,  (he  knows  not  whence,) 

A  little  flash,  a  mystic  hint ; 

And  in  the  long,  harmonious  years 

(If  Death  so  taste  Lethean  springs) 
May  some  dim  touch  of  earthly  things 

Surprise  thee  ranging  with  thy  peers. 

If  such  a  dreamy  touch  should  fall, 

O,  turn  thee  round,  resolve  the  doubt, 
My  guardian  angel  will  speak  out 

In  that  high  place,  and  tell  thee  all. 


IN    ME.MORIAM.  351 


XLIV. 

The  baby  new  to  earth  and  sky, 

What  time  his  tender  palm  is  pressed 
Against  the  circle  of  the  breast, 

Has  never  thought  that  "  this  is  1 :  " 

But  as  he  grows  he  gathers  much, 

And  learns  the  use  of  "  I,"  and  "  me," 
And  finds  "  I  am  not  what  I  see, 

And  other  than  the  things  I  touch  :  " 

So  rounds  he  to  a  separate  mind 

From  whence  clear  memory  may  oeo-m, 
As  through  the  frame  that  binds  him  in 

His  isolation  grows  defined. 

This  use  may  lie  in  blood  and  breath, 

Which  else  were  fruitless  of  their  due. 
Had  man  to  learn  himself  anew 

Beyond  the  second  birth  of  Death. 


352  IN    MEMORIAM. 


We  ranging  down  this  lower  track, 

The  path  we  came  by,  thorn  and  flower. 
Is  shadowed  by  the  growing  hour, 

Lest  life  should  fail  in  looking  back. 

So  be  it :  there  no  shade  can  last 

In  that  deep  dawn  behind  the  tomb, 

But  clear  from  marge  to  marge  shall  bioor 

The  eternal  landscape  of  the  past ; 

A  lifelong  tract  of  time  revealed ; 

The  fruitful  hours  of  still  increase  : 
Days  ordered  in  a  wealthy  peace, 

And  those  five  years  its  richest  field. 

O  Love!  thy  province  were  not  large, 
A  bounded  field,  nor  stretching  far, 
Look  also,  Love,  a  brooding  star, 

A  rosy  warmth  from  marge  to  marge. 


IN    MEMOKIAM.  353 


That  each,  who  seems  a  separate  whole, 
Should  move  his  rounds,  and  fusing  all 
The  skirts  of  self  again,  should  fall 

Remerging  in  the  general  Soul, 


Is  faith  as  vague  as  all  unsweet : 
Eternal  form  shall  still  divide 
The  eternal  soul  from  all  beside  ; 

And  I  shall  know  him  when  we  meet: 

And  we  shall  sit  at  endless  feast, 

Enjoying  each  the  other's  good  ; 
What  vaster  dream  can  hit  the  mood 

Of  Love  on  earth  ?     He  seeks  at  least 


Upon  the  last  and  sharpest  height, 
Before  the  spirits  fade  away, 
Some  Mnding-place,  to  clasp  and  say, 

"  Farewell !     We  lose  ourselves  in  liffht." 


354  IN    MEMOKIAil. 


XLVn. 

If  these  brief  lays,  of  Sorrow  born, 
Were  taken  to  be  such  as  closed 
Grave  doubts  and  answers  here  proposed, 

Then  these  were  such  as  men  might  scorn  : 

Her  care  is  not  to  part  and  prove ; 

She  takes,  when  harsher  moods  remit. 
What  slender  shade  of  doubt  may  flit, 

And  makes  it  vassal  unto  love : 

And  hence,  indeed,  she  sports  with  words ; 
But  better  serves  a  wholesome  law, 
And  holds  it  sin  and  shame  to  draw 

The  deepest  measure  from  the  chords  : 

Nor  dare  she  trust  a  larger  lay, 

But  rather  loosens  from  the  lip 
Short  swallow-flights  of  song,  that  dip 

Their  wings  in  tears,  and  skim  away. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  355 


XLVIII. 

From  art,  from  nature,  from  the  schools, 
Let  random  influences  glance, 
Like  light  in  many  a  shivered  lance 

That  breaks  about  the  dappled  pools  : 

The  lightest  wave  of  thought  shall  lisp, 
The  fancy's  tenderest  eddy  wreathe, 
The  slightest  air  of  song  shall  breathe, 

To  make  the  sullen  surface  crisp. 

And  look  thy  look,  and  go  thy  way, 

But  blame  not  thou  the  winds  that  make 
The  seeming-wanton  ripple  break, 

The  tender-pencilled  shadow  play. 

Beneath  all  fancied  hopes  and  fears, 
Ay  me  !  the  sorrow  deepens  down. 
Whose  muffled  motions  blindly  drown 

The  bases  of  my  life  in  tears. 


356  IN    MEJIORIAM. 


XLEX. 

Be  near  me  when  my  light  is  low, 

When  the  blood  creeps,  and  the  nerves  pticl< 
And  tingle ;  and  the  heart  is  sick, 

A.nd  all  the  wheels  of  Being  slow. 

Be  near  me  when  the  sensuous  frame 

Is  racked  with  pangs  that  conquer  trust, 
And  time,  a  maniac,  scattering  dust, 

And  life,  a  Fury,  slinging  flame. 

Be  near  me  when  my  faith  is  diy, 

And  men  the  flies  of  latter  spring. 
That  lay  their  eggs,  ana  sting  and  sing, 

And  weave  their  petty  cells  and  die. 

Be  near  me  when  I  fade  away, 

To  point  the  term  of  human  strife. 
And  on  the  low,  dark  verge  of  life. 

The  twilight  of  eternal  day. 


IN    MEMOEIAM.  357 


Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 

Should  still  be  near  us  at  our  side  ? 
Is  there  no  baseness  we  would  hide  ? 

No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread  ? 

Shall  he  for  whose  applause  I  strove, 
I  had  such  reverence  for  his  blame, 
See  with  clear  eye  some  hidden  shame, 

And  1  be  lessened  in  his  love  ? 

I  wrong  the  grave  with  fears  untrue : 

Shall  love  be  blamed  for  want  of  faith  ? 
There  must  be  wisdom  with  great  Death ; 

The  dead  shall  look  me  through  and  through. 

Be  near  us  when  we  climb  or  fall : 

Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  rolling  hours 
With  larger,  other  eyes  than  ours, 

To  make  allowance  for  us  all. 


;i,>S  IN    MEMORIAL. 


LI, 


I  CANNOT  love  thee  as  I  ought, 

For  love  reflects  the  thing  beloved ; 
My  words  are  only  words,  and  moved 

Upon  the  topmost  froth  of  thought. 

"  Yet  blame  not  thou  thy  plaintive  song," 
The  Spirit  of  true  love  replied ; 
"  Thou  canst  not  move  me  from  thy  side, 

Nor  human  frailty  do  me  wrong. 

"  What  keeps  a  spirit  wholly  true 
To  that  ideal  which  he  bears  ? 
What  record  ?  not  the  sinless  years 

That  breathed  beneath  the  Syrian  blue ; 

"  So  fret  not,  like  an  idle  girl, 

That  life  is  dashed  with  flecks  of  sin. 

Abide  :  thy  wealth  is  gathered  in. 
When  Time  hath  sundered  shell  from  pearl." 


IN    MEMOEIAM.  359 


IJI. 

How  many  a  father  have  I  seen, 
A  sober  man,  among  his  boys, 
Whose  youth  was  full  of  foolish  noise, 

Who  wears  his  manhood  hale  and  green  ! 

And  dare  we  to  this  doctrine  give, 

That  had  the  wild  oat  not  been  sown, 
The  soil,  left  barren,  had  not  grown 

The  grain  by  which  a  man  may  live  ? 

O,  if  we  held  the  doctrine  sound 

For  life  outliving  heats  of  youth. 
Yet  who  would  preach  it  as  a  truth 

To  those  that  eddy  round  and  round  ? 

Hold  thou  the  good :  define  it  well : 

For  fear  divine  philosophy 

Should  push  beyond  her  mark,  and  be 
Procuress  to  the  Lords  of  Hell. 


360  IN    MEMORIAM. 


LIU. 


0,  YET  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 

Defects  of  doubt  and  taints  of  blood  ; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroyed. 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete ; 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain  ; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivelled  in  a  fruitless  fire, 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold !  we  know  not  anything ; 

I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last,  —  far  off,  —  at  last,  to  all, 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  361 


So  runs  my  dream  :  but  what  am  1  ? 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light : 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry, 


24 


362  IN    ME-MORIAM. 


LIV. 

The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 

No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, — 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul  ? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 

That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams  ? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life ; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 

Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear ; 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs, 

That  slope  through  darkness  up  to  God ; 


IN    MEMORIAM.  363 


1  Stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all. 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 


364  IN    MEMORIAM. 


"  So  careful  of  the  type  ? "  but  no. 

From  scarped  cliff  and  quarried  stone 
She  cries,  "  A  thousand  types  are  gone 

I  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

"  Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me  : 
I  bring  to  life,  I  bring  to  death  : 
The  spirit  does  but  mean  the  breath  : 

I  know  no  more."     And  he,  shall  he, 

Man,  her  last  work,  who  seemed  so  fair, 
Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes, 
Who  rolled  the  psalm  to  wintry  skies, 

Who  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless  prayer, 

Who  trusted  God  was  love  indeed, 
And  love  Creation's  final  law,  — 
Tho'igh  Nature. red  in  tooth  and  claw 

With  ra  -ne  shrieKec/  agamst  his  creed, — 


IN    MEMORIAM.  366 

Who  loved,  who  suffered  countless  ills, 
Who  battled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 
Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust, 

Or  sealed  withm  the  iron  hills  ? 

No  more  ?  A  monster,  then,  a  dream, 
A  discord.  Dragons  of  the  prime, 
That  tare  each  other  in  their  slime. 

Were  mellow  music  matched  with  him. 

0  life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail ! 

0  for  thy  voice  to  soothe  and  bless ! 

What  hope  of  answer,  or  redress  ? 
Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 


366  IN    MEMOKIAM. 


LVI. 

Peace,  come  away :  the  song  of  woe 
Is  after  all  an  earthly  song  : 
Peace,  come  away ;  we  do  him  wrong 

To  sing  so  wildly ;  let  us  go. 

Come,  let  us  go ;  your  cheeks  are  pale, 
But  half  my  life  I  leave  behind ; 
Methinks  my  friend  is  richly  shrined, 

But  I  shall  pass  ;  my  work  will  fail. 

Yet  in  these  ears,  till  hearing  dies, 

One  set  slow  bell  will  seem  to  toll 
The  passing  of  the  sweetest  soul 

That  ever  looked  with  human  eyes. 

I  hear  it  now,  and  o'er  and  o'er. 
Eternal  greetings  to  the  dead ; 
And  "Ave,  Ave,  Ave,"  said, 

"  Adieu,  adieu,"  forevermore  ! 


Il\    MEMORIAM.  367 


Lvn. 

In  those  sad  words  I  took  farewell ! 
Like  echoes  in  sepulchral  halls, 
As  drop  by  drop  the  water  falls 

In  vaults  and  catacombs,  they  fell ; 

And,  falling,  idly  broke  the  peace 

Of  hearts  that  beat  from  day  to  day. 
Half-conscious  of  their  dying  clay. 

And  those  cold  crypts  where  they  shall  cease. 

The  high  Muse  answered :  "  Wherefore  grieve 
Thy  brethren  with  a  fruitless  tear  ? 
Abide  a  little  longer  here, 

And  thou  shalt  take  a  nobler  leave." 


368  IN    MEilOEIAM. 


LvnL 

He  passed ;  a  soul  of  nobler  tone : 

My  spirit  loved  and  loves  him  yet, 
Like  some  poor  girl  whose  heart  is  set 

On  one  whose  rank  exceeds  her  own. 

He  mixing  with  his  proper  sphere, 

She  finds  the  baseness  of  her  lot ; 
Half  jealous  of  she  knows  not  what, 

And  envying  all  that  meet  him  there. 

The  little  village  looks  forlorn ; 

She  sighs  amid  her  narrow  days, 
Moving  about  the  household  ways, 

In  that  dark  house  where  .^he  was  born. 


The  foolish  neighbors  come  and  go, 

And  tease  her  till  the  day  draws  by ; 
At  night  she  weeps,  "  How  vain  am  1 1 

How  should  he  love  a  thing  so  low  ?  " 


IN    ME.MOKIAM.  oG9 


ux. 


If,  in  thy  second  state  sublime, 

Thy  ransomed  reason  change  replies 
With  all  the  circle  of  the  wise, 

The  perfect  flower  of  human  time ; 

And  if  thou  cast  thine  eyes  below. 

How  dimly  charactered  and  slight, 

How  dwarfed  a  growth  of  cold  and  night, 

How  blanched  with  darkness,  must  I  grow  ! 

Yet  turn  thee  to  the  doubtful  shore, 

Where  thy  first  form  was  made  a  man ; 
I  loved  thee.  Spirit,  and  love,  nor  can 

The  soul  of  Shakspeare  love  thee  more. 


370  IN    MEMORIA-M. 


LX. 

Though  if  an  eye  that 's  downward  cast 

Could  make  thee  somewhat  blench  or  fail, 
So  be  my  love  an  idle  tale, 

And  fading  legend  of  the  past ; 

And  thou,  as  one  that  once  declined. 
When  he  was  little  more  than  boy, 
On  some  unworthy  heart  with  joy, 

But  lives  to  wed  an  equal  mind ; 

And  breathes  a  novel  world,  the  while 

His  other  passion  wholly  dies, 

Or  in  the  light  of  deeper  eyes 
Is  matter  for  a  flying  smile. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  371 


ua. 

Yet  pity  for  a  horse  o'erdriven, 

And  love  in  which  my  hound  has  part, 
Can  hang  no  weight  upon  my  heart, 

In  its  assumptions  up  to  heaven ; 

And  I  am  so  much  more  than  these,  " 
As  thou,  perchance,  art  more  than  I, 
And  yet  I  spare  them  sympathy, 

And  I  would  set  their  pains  at  ease. 

So  mayst  thou  watch  me  where  1  weep, 
As,  unto  vaster  motions  bound, 
The  circuits  of  thine  orbit  round 

A  higher  height,  a  deeper  deep. 


372  IX    MEMOKIAM. 


Lxn. 

Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been, 
As  some  divinely  gifted  man, 
Whose  life  in  low  estate  began, 

And  on  a  simple  village  green  ; 

Who  breaks  his  birth's  invidious  bar, 

And  grasps  the  skirts  of  happy  chance. 
And  breasts  the  blows  of  circumstance. 

And  grapples  with  his  evil  star ; 

Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known. 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden  keys, 
To  mould  a  mighty  state's  decrees. 

And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne  ; 

And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher, 

Becomes  on  Fortune's  crowning  slope 
The  pillar  of  a  people's  hope, 

The  centre  of  a  world's  desire  ; 


IN    MEMORIAM.  373 

V 

Yet  feels,  as  in  a  pensive  dream, 

When  all  his  active  powers  are  still, 
A  distant  dearness  in  the  hill, 

A  secret  sweetness  in  the  stream, 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate, 

While  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  played  at  counsellors  and  kings, 

With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate  ; 

Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea. 
And  reaps  the  labor  of  his  hands, 
Or  in  the  furrow  musing  stands : 

"  Does  my  old  friend  remember  me  ?  " 


374  IN    MEMOKIAM. 


LXm. 

Sweet  soul !  do  with  me  as  thou  wilt ; 

I  lull  a  fancy  trouble-tost 

With  "  Love  's  too  precious  to  be  lost. 
A  little  grain  shall  not  be  spilt." 

And  in  that  solace  can  1  sing, 

Till  out  of  painful  phases  wrought 
There  flutters  up  a  happy  thought, 

Self-balanced  on  a  lightsome  wing ; 

Since  we  deserved  the  name  of  friends, 
And  thine  effect  so  lives  in  me, 
A  part  of  mine  may  live  in  thee, 

And  move  thee  on  to  noble  ends. 


IN    MEMOKIAM.  375 


LXIV. 

YocT  thought  my  heart  too  far  diseased ; 
You  wonder  when  my  fancies  play, 
To  find  me  gay  among  the  gay, 

Like  one  with  any  trifle  pleased. 

The  shade  by  which  my  life  was  crossed, 
Which  makes  a  desert  in  the  mind, 
Has  made  me  kindly  with  my  kind, 

And  like  to  him  whose  sight  is  lost ; 

Whose  feet  are  guided  through  the  land, 
Whose  jest  among  his  friends  is  free, 
Who  takes  the  children  on  his  nnee, 

And  winds  their  curls  about  his  hand  ; 

He  plays  with  threads,  he  beats  his  chair 
For  pastime,  dreaming  of  the  sky ; 
His  inner  day  can  never  die. 

His  night  of  loss  is  always  there. 


376  IX    MEMORIAX. 


ISY, 

"When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls 
I  know  that  in  thy  place  of  rest, 
By  that  broad  water  of  the  west 

There  comes  a  glory  on  the  walls  : 

Thy  marble  bright  in  dark  appears, 
As  slowly  steals  a  silver  flame 
Along  the  letters  of  thy  name, 

And  o'er  the  number  of  thy  years. 

The  mystic  glory  swims  away ; 

From  off  my  bed  the  moonlight  dies 
And  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes 

I  sleep  till  dusk  is  tipped  in  gray : 

And  then  I  know  the  mist  is  drawn 
A  lucid  veil  from  coast  to  coast, 
And  in  the  chancel  like  a  ghost 

Thy  tablet  glimmers  to  the  davsm. 


IN    MEMOEIAM.  377 


LXVI. 

When  in  the  down  I  sink  my  head. 

Sleep,  Death's  twin-brother,  times  mv  breatn  ; 

Sleep,  Death's  twin-brother,  knows  not  Death, 
Nor  can  I  dream  of  thee  as  dead : 

I  walk  as  ere  1  walked  forlorn, 

When  all  our  path  was  fresh  with  dew, 

And  all  the  bugle  breezes  blew 
Reveillee  to  the  breaking  mom. 

But  what  is  this  ?  I  turn  about, 
I  find  a  trouble  in  thine  eye. 
Which  makes  me  sad,  I  know  not  why, 

Nor  can  my  dream  resolve  the  doubt: 

But  ere  the  lark  hath  left  the  lea 

I  wake,  and  I  discern  the  truth  ; 

[t  IS  the  trouble  of  my  youth 
That  ioolish  sleep  transfers  to  thee. 


'67 S  IN    MEMOKIAM. 


LXVII. 

I  DREAMED  there  would  be  Spring  no  more, 
That  Nature's  ancient  power  was  lost : 
The  streets  were  black  with  smoke  and  frost, 

They  chattered  trifles  at  the  door. 

I  wandered  from  the  noisy  town, 

1  found  a  wood  with  thorny  bougtis ; 
I  took  the  thorns  to  bind  my  brows, 

I  wore  them  like  a  civic  crown. 

I  met  with  scoffs,  1  met  with  scorns, 

From  youth  and  babe  and  hoary  hairs : 
They  called  me  in  the  public  squares 

The  fool  that  wears  a  crown  of  thorns. 

They  called  me  fool,  they  called  me  child : 
I  found  an  angel  of  the  night : 
The  voice  was  low,  the  look  was  bright, 

He  looked  upon  my  crown  and  smiled  : 


IN    MEMORIAM.  379 

He  reached  the  glory  of  a  hand, 

That  seemed  to  touch  it  into  leaf: 
The  voice  was  not  the  voice  of  grief; 

The  words  were  hard  to  understand. 


380 


IN    MEMOEIAM. 


LXVIII. 

I  CANNOT  see  the  features  right, 

When  on  the  gloom  I  strive  to  paint 
The  face  I  know ;  the  hues  are  faint, 

And  mix  with  hollow  masks  of  night : 

Cloud-towers  by  ghostly  masons  wrought, 
A  gulf  that  ever  shuts  and  gapes, 
A  hand  that  points,  and  palled  shapes 

In  shadowy  thoroughfares  of  thought ; 

And  crowds  that  stream  from  yawning  doors, 
And  shoals  of  puckered  faces  drive  ; 
Dark  bulks  that  tumble  half  alive, 

And  lazy  lengths  on  boundless  shores : 

Till  all  at  once,  beyond  the  will, 
I  hear  a  wizard  music  roll, 
And  through  a  lattice  on  the  soul 

Looks  thy  fair  face,  and  makes  it  still. 


IN    MEMORIAM,  381 


LXIZ. 

Sleep,  kinsman  thou  to  death  and  trance 
And  madness,  thou  hast  forged  at  last 
A  night-long  Present  of  the  Past 

In  which  we  went  through  summer  France. 

Hadst  thou  such  credit  with  the  soul  ? 
So  bring  an  opiate  treble-strong. 
Drug  down  the  blindfold  sense  of  wrong, 

That  thus  my  pleasure  might  be  whole ; 

While  now  we  talk,  as  once  we  talked 

Of  men  and  minds,  the  dust  of  change, 
The  days  that  grow  to  something  strange, 

In  walking  as  of  old  we  walked 

Beside  the  river's  wooded  reach. 

The  fortress,  and  the  mountain  ridge. 
The  cataract  flashing  from  the  bridge. 

The  breaker  breaking  on  the  beach. 


382  IN    MEMORIAM. 


LXX. 

RisEST  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 

And  howlest,  issuing  out  of  night, 
With  blasts  that  blow  the  poplar  white, 
And  lash  with  storm  the  streaming  pane  ? 

Day,  when  my  crowned  estate  begun 
To  pine  in  that  reverse  of  doom, 
Which  sickened  every  living  bloom. 

And  blurred  the  splendor  of  the  sun ; 

Who  usherest  in  the  dolorous  hour 

With  thy  quick  tears  that  make  the  rose 
Pull  sideways,  and  the  daisy  close 

Her  crimson  fringes  to  the  shower  ; 

Who  mightst  have  heaved  a  windless  flame 
Up  the  deep  East,  or,  whispering,  played 
A  checker-work  of  beam  and  shade 

From  hill  to  hill,  yet  looked  the  same. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  383 

As  wan,  as  chill,  as  wild,  as  now ; 

Day,  marked  as  with  some  hideous  crime, 
When  the  dark  hand  struck  down  through  time. 

And  cancelled  nature's  best :  but  thou, 

Lift  as  thou  mayst  thy  burthened  brows 

Through  clouds  that  drench  the  morning  star, 
And  whirl  the  ungarnered  sheaf  afar. 

And  sow  the  sky  with  flying  boughs, 

And  up  thy  vault  with  roaring  sound 

Climb  thy  thick  noon,  disastrous  day ; 
Touch  thy  dull  goal  of  joyless  gray, 

And  hide  thy  shame  beneath  the  ground. 


384  IN    MEMOKIAM. 


LXXI. 

So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do, 

So  little  done,  such  things  to  be. 
How  know  1  what  had  need  of  thee, 

For  thou  wert  strong  as  thou  wert  true  ? 

The  fame  is  quenched  that  I  foresaw. 

The  head  hath  missed  an  earthly  wreath 
I  curse  not  nature ;  no,  nor  death. 

For  nothing  is  that  errs  from  law. 

We  pass :  the  path  that  each  man  trod 
Is  dim,  or  will  be  dim,  with  weeds : 
What  fame  is  left  for  human  deeds 

In  endless  age  ?     It  rests  with  God. 

O  hollow  wraith  of  dying  fame. 

Fade  wholly,  while  the  soul  exults. 
And  self-infolds  the  large  results 

Of  force  that  would  have  forged  a  name. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  385 


LXXII. 

As  sometimes  in  a  dead  man's  face. 

To  those  that  watch  it  more  and  more, 
A  likeness  hardly  seen  before 

Comes  out,  —  to  some  one  of  his  race  : 

So,  dearest,  now  thy  brows  are  cold, 

I  see  thee  what  thou  art,  and  know 
Thy  likeness  to  the  wise  below. 

Thy  kindred  with  the  great  of  old. 

But  there  is  more  than  I  can  see, 
And  what  I  see  I  leave  unsaid, 
Nor  speak  it,  knowing  Death  has  made 

His  darkness  beautiful  with  thee. 


386  IN    MEMOKIAM. 


LXXIII. 

I  LEAVE  thy  praises  unexpressed 

In  verse  that  brings  myself  relief, 
And  by  the  measure  of  my  grief 

I  leave  thy  greatness  to  be  guessed ; 

What  practice,  howsoe'er  expert, 

In  fitting  aptest  words  to  things, 
Or  voice  the  richest-toned  that  sings, 

Hath  power  to  give  thee  as  thou  wert  ? 

I  care  not,  in  these  fading  days. 

To  raise  a  cry  that  lasts  not  long, 
And  round  thee  with  the  breeze  of  song 

To  stir  a  little  dust  of  praise. 

Thy  leaf  has  perished  in  the  green, 

And,  while  we  breathe  beneath  the  sun, 
The  world  which  credits  what  is  done 

Is  cold  to  all  that  might  have  been. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  387 

So  here  shall  silence  guard  thy  fame ; 

But  somewhere,  out  of  human  view, 

Whate'er  thy  hands  are  set  to  do 
Is  wrought  with  tumult  of  acclaim. 


388  IN    MEJIORIAM. 


LXXIV. 

Take  wings  of  fancy,  and  ascend, 
And  in  i  moment  set  thy  face 
Where  all  the  starry  heavens  of  space 

Are  sharpened  to  a  needle's  end ; 

Take  wings  of  foresight ;  lighten  through 
The  secular  abyss  to  come. 
And  lo !  thy  deepest  lays  are  dumb 

Before  the  mouldering  of  a  yew  ; 


And  if  the  matin  songs,  that  woke 
The  darkness  of  our  planet,  last, 
Thine  own  shall  wither  in  the  vast. 

Ere  half  the  lifetime  of  an  oak. 


Ere  these  have  clothed  their  branchy  bowers 
With  fifty  Mays,  thy  songs  are  vain ; 
And  what  are  they  when  these  remain 

The  ruined  shells  of  hollow  towers  ? 


IN    MEMORIAM.  389 


LXXV. 

What  hope  is  here  for  modem  rhyme 
To  him,  who  turns  a  musing  eye 
On  songs,  and  deeds,  and  lives,  that  lie 

Foreshortened  in  the  tract  of  time  ? 

These  mortal  lullabies  of  pain 

May  bind  a  book,  may  line  a  box, 
May  serve  to  curl  a  maiden's  locks  ; 

Or,  when  a  thousand  moons  shall  wane, 

A  man  upon  a  stall  may  find, 

And,  passing,  turn  the  page  that  tell? 

A  grief,  —  then  changed  to  something  else, 
Sung  by  a  long  forgotten  mind. 

But  what  of  that  ?     My  darkened  ways 
Shall  ring  with  music  all  the  same ; 
To  breathe  my  loss  is  more  than  fame. 

To  utter  love  more  sweet  than  praise. 


390  IN    MEMOEIAM. 


LXXVI. 

Again  at  Christmas  did  we  weave 

The  holly  round  the  Christmas  heurtli, 
The  silent  snow  possessed  the  earth, 

And  calmly  fell  our  Christmas  eve  ; 

The  yule-clog  sparkled  keen  with  frost, 
No  wing  of  wind  the  region  swept, 
But  over  all  things  brooding  slept 

The  quiet  sense  of  something  lost. 

As  in  the  winters  left  behind. 

Again  our  ancient  games  had  place, 
The  mimic  pictures  breathing  grace, 

And  dance  and  song  and  hoodman-blind. 

Who  showed  a  token  of  distress  ? 
No  single  tear,  no  type  of  pain  : 
O  sorrow,  then  can  sorrow  wane  ? 

O  grief,  can  grief  be  changed  to  less  ? 


IN    MEMORIAM.  391 

O  last  regret,  Kegret  can  die  ! 

No,  —  mixed  with  all  this  mj^stic  frame, 

Her  deep  relations  are  the  same, 
But  with  long  use  her  tears  are  dry. 


392  IX    MEJIOKIAil. 


LXXVTI. 

"  More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me,"  — 
Let  this  not  vex  thee,  noble  heart ! 
I  know  thee  of  what  force  thou  art, 

To  hold  the  costliest  love  in  fee. 

But  thou  and  I  are  one  in  kind, 

As  moulded  like  in  nature's  mint ; 
And  hill  and  wood  and  field  did  print 

The  same  sweet  forms  in  either  mind. 

For  us  the  same  cold  streamlet  curled 

Through  all  his  eddying  coves ;  the  same 
All  winds  that  roam  the  twilight  came 

In  whispers  of  the  beauteous  world. 

At  one  dear  knee  we  proffered  vows, 

One  lesson  from  one  book  we  learned, 
Ere  childhood's  flaxen  ringlet  turned 

To  black  and  brown  on  kindred  brows. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  393 

And  so  my  wealth  resembles  thine, 

But  he  was  rich  where  I  was  poor, 
And  he  supplied  my  want  the  more 

As  his  unlikeness  fitted  mine. 


26 


394  IN    ME.MOKIAil. 


LXXVIII. 

If  any  vague  desire  should  rise, 

That  holy  Death,  ere  Arthur  died, 
Had  moved  me  kindly  from  his  side. 

And  dropped  the  dust  on  tearless  eyes ; 

Then  fancy  shapes,  as  fancy  can, 

The  grief  my  loss  in  him  had  wrought, 
A  grief  as  deep  as  life  or  thought, 

But  stayed  in  peace  with  God  and  man. 

I  make  a  picture  in  the  brain ; 

I  hear  the  sentence  that  he  speaks ; 

He  bears  the  burthen  of  the  weeks, 
But  turns  his  burthen  into  gain. 

His  credit  thus  shall  set  me  free ; 

And,  influence-rich  to  soothe  and  save, 
Unused  example  from  the  grave, 

Reach  out  dead  hands  to  comfort  me. 


IN    MEMOB.IAM.  b95 


Lxxnc. 

Could  1  have  said  while  he  was  here, 

"  My  love  shall  now  no  further  range, 
There  cannot  come  a  mellower  change. 

For  now  is  love  mature  in  ear." 

Love,  then,  had  hope  of  richer  store  : 

What  end  is  here  to  my  complaint  ? 
This  haunting  whisper  makes  me  faint, 

"  More  years  had  made  me  love  thee  more." 

But  Death  returns  an  answer  sweet : 

"  My  sudden  frost  was  sudden  gain, 
And  gave  all  ripeness  to  the  grain, 

It  might  have  drawn  from  after-heat." 


?96  IN    iMEMORIAM. 


LXXX. 

I  "WAGE  not  any  feud  with  Death 

For  changes  wrought  on  form  and  face ; 

No  lower  life  that  earth's  embrace 
May  breed  with  him  can  fright  my  faith. 

Eternal  process  moving  on, 

From  state  to  state  the  spirit  walks ; 

And  these  are  but  the  shattered  stalks 
Or  ruined  chrysalis  of  one. 

Nor  blame  I  Death,  because  he  bare 
The  use  of  virtue  out  of  earth ; 
I  know  transplanted  human  worth 

Will  bloom  to  profit,  otherwhere. 

For  this  alone  on  Death  I  wreak 

The  wrath  that  garners  in  my  heart ; 
He  put  our  lives  so  far  apart 

We  cannot  hear  each  other  speak. 


IN    MEMOKIAM.  397 


LXXXI. 

Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 
O  sweet  new  year,  delaying  long'; 
Thou  doest  expectant  nature  wrong. 

Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 

What  stays  thee  from  the  clouded  noons, 
Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place  ? 
Can  trouble  live  with  April  days. 

Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons  ? 

Bring  orchis,  bring  the  fox-glo^e  spire, 
The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue , 
Deep  tulips  dashed  with  fiery  dew 

Laburnums,  dropping-wells  of  fire. 

0  thou,  new  year,  delaying  long, 

Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood. 
That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud, 

And  flood  a  fresher  throat  with  song. 


VJS  IN    MEilOKIAM. 


Lxxxn. 

When  I  contemplate,  all  alone, 

The  life  that  had  been  thine  below. 
And  fix  my  thoughts  on  all  the  glow 

To  which  thy  crescent  would  have  grown ; 

I  see  thee  sitting  cro^vned  with  good, 
A  central  warmth  diffusing  bliss 
In  glance  and  smile,  and  clasp  and  kiss. 

On  all  the  branches  of  thy  blood ; 

Thy  blood,  my  friend,  and  partly  mine ; 
For  now  the  day  was  drawing  on, 
When  thou  shouldst  link  thy  life  with  one 

Of  mine  own  house,  and  boys  of  thine 

Had  babbled  "  Uncle  "  on  my  knee  ; 
But  that  remorseless  iron  hour 
Made  cypress  of  her  orange-flower, 

Despair  of  Hope,  and  earth  of  thee. 


IN    MEMOKIAIM.  39S 

I  seem  to  meet  their  least  desire, 

To  clap  their  cheeks,  to  call  them  mine. 
I  see  their  unborn  faces  shine 

Beside  the  never-lighted  fire. 

I  see  myself  an  honored  guest, 

Thy  partner  in  the  flowery  walk 

Of  letters,  genial  table-talk. 
Or  deep  dispute,  and  graceful  jest : 

While  r.ow  thy  prosperous  labor  fills 
The  lips  of  men  with  honest  praise, 
And  sun  by  sun  the  happy  days 

Descend  below  the  golden  hills 

With  promise  of  a  morn  as  fair ; 

And  all  the  train  of  bounteous  hours 
Conduct,  by  paths  of  growing  powers, 

To  reverence  and  the  silver  hair ; 

Till  slowly  worn  her  earthly  robe, 

Her  lavish  mission  richly  wrought, 
Leaving  great  legacies  of  thought, 

Thy  spirit  should  fail  from  off  the  globe ; 


400  IN    MEMORIAM. 

What  time  mine  own  might  also  flee, 

As  linked  with  thine  in  love  and  fate, 
And,  hovering  o'er  the  dolorous  strait 

To  the  other  shore,  involved  in  thee, 

Arrive  at  last  the  blessed  goal, 

And  he  that  died  in  Holy  Land 
Would  reach  us  out  the  shining  hand, 

And  take  us  as  a  single  soul. 

What  reed  was  that  on  which  I  leant  ? 
Ah,  backward  fancy,  wherefore  wake 
The  old  bittei  ness  again,  and  break 

The  low  beginnings  of  content? 


IN    MEMOKIAM.  401 


Lxxxm. 

This  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and  pall, 
I  felt  it,  when  1  sorrowed  most, 
'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all 

O  true  in  word,  and  tried  in  deed, 
Demanding,  so  to  bring  relief 
To  this  which  is  our  common  grief, 

What  kind  of  life  is  that  I  lead ; 

And  whether  trust  in  things  above 

Be  dimmed  of  sorrow,  or  sustained, 
And  whether  love  for  him  have  drained 

My  capabilities  of  love ; 

Your  words  have  virtue  such  as  draws 
A  faithful  answer  from  the  breast. 
Through  light  reproaches,  half  expressed, 

And  loyal  unto  kindly  laws. 


402  IN    MEMOEIAM. 

My  blood  an  even  tenor  kept, 

Till  on  mine  ear  this  message  falls, 
That  in  Vienna's  sacred  walls 

God's  finger  touched  him,  and  he  slept. 

The  great  Intelligences  fair 

That  range  above  our  mortal  state, 
In  circle  round  the  blessed  gate, 

Received  and  gave  him  welcome  there ; 

And  led  him  through  the  blissful  climes, 
And  showed  him  in  the  fountain  fresh 
All  knowledge  that  the  sons  of  flesh 

Shall  gather  in  the  cycled  times. 

But  I  remained,  whose  hopes  were  dim, 

Whose  life,  whose  thoughts,  were  little  worth. 
To  wander  on  a  darkened  earth, 

Where  all  things  round  me  breathed  of  him. 

0  friendship,  equal-poised  control, 

O  heart,  with  kindliest  motion  warm, 
0  sacred  essence,  other  form, 

O  solemn  ghost !  0  crowned  soul ! 


IN    MEMOB.IAM.  .  403 

Yet  none  could  better  know  than  I 

How  much  of  act  at  human  hands 
The  sense  of  human  will  demands, 

By  which  we  dare  to  live  or  die. 

Whatever  way  my  days  decline, 

1  felt  and  feel,  though  left  alone. 

His  being  working  in  mine  own, 
The  footsteps  of  his  life  in  niitie  ; 

A  life  that  all  the  Muses  decked 

With  gifts  of  grace  that  might  express 
All-comprehensive  tenderness. 

All-subtilizing  intellect : 

And  so  my  passion  hath  not  swerved 
To  works  of  weakness,  but  I  find 
An  image  comforting  the  mind. 

And  in  my  grief  a  strength  reserved. 

Likewise  the  imaginative  woe, 

That  loved  to  handle  spiritual  strife, 
Diffused  the  shock  through  all  my  life. 

But  in  the  present  broke  the  blow. 


404  •  IN    MEMOKIAM. 

My  pulses  therefore  beat  again 

For  other  friends  that  once  1  met ; 
Nor  can  it  suit  me  to  forget 

The  mighty  hopes  that  make  us  men. 

I  woo  your  love :  I  count  it  crime 

To  mourn  for  any  overmuch ; 

I,  the  divided  half  of  such 
A  friendship  as  had  mastered  Time ; 

Which  masters  Time  indeed,  and  is 

Eternal,  separate  from  fears. 

The  all-assuming  months  and  years 
Can  take  no  part  away  from  this  : 

But  Summer  on  the  steaming  floods, 

And  Spring  that  swells  the  narrow  brooks, 
And  Autumn  with  a  noise  of  rooks. 

That  gather  in  the  waning  woods, 

And  every  pulse  of  wind  and  wave 

Recalls,  in  change  of  light  or  gloom, 
My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

And  my  prime  passion  in  the  grave  : 


IN    MEMORIAM.  405 

My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

A  part  of  stillness  yearns  to  speak : 
"  Arise,  and  get  thee  forth  and  seek 

A  friendship  for  the  years  to  come. 

"  I  watch  thee  from  the  quiet  shore  ; 

Thy  spirit  up  to  mine  can  reach ; 

But  in  dear  words  of  human  speech 
We  two  communicate  no  more." 

And  I,  "  Can  clouds  of  nature  stain 

The  starry  clearness  of  the  free  ? 

How  is  it  ?     Canst  thou  feel  for  me 
Some  painless  sympathy  with  pain  ?  " 

And  lightly  does  the  whisper  fall : 

"  'T  is  hard  for  thee  to  fathom  this  ; 
1  triumph  in  conclusive  bliss, 

And  that  serene  result  of  all." 

So  hold  I  commerce  with  the  dead ; 

Or  so  methinks  the  dead  would  say ; 

Or  so  shall  grief  with  symbols  play, 
And  piiung  life  be  fancy-fed. 


4U6  IN    MEMOKIAM. 

JN  DW  looking  to  some  settled  end, 

That  these  things  pass,  and  I  shall  prove 
A  meeting  somewhere,  love  with  love, 

I  crave  your  pardon,  oh  my  friend  ; 

if  not  so  fresh,  with  love  as  true, 
I,  clasping  brother-hands,  avei 
I  could  not,  if  1  would,  transfer 

The  whole  1  felt  for  him  to  you. 

For  which  be  they  that  hold  \part 

The  promise  of  the  golden  hours  ? 
First  love,  first  friendship,  equal  powers 

That  marry  with  the  virgin  heart. 

Still  mine  that  cannot  but  deplore, 
That  beats  within  a  lonely  place, 
That  yet  remembers  his  embrace, 

But  at  his  footstep  leaps  no  more. 

My  heart,  though  widowed,  may  not  rest 
Quite  in  the  love  of  what  is  gone, 
But  seeks  to  beat  in  time  with  one 

That  warms  another  living-  breast. 


IS    MEMORIAM.  407 

Ah  !  take  the  imperfect  gift  I  bring, 
Knowing  the  primrose  yet  is  dear, 
The  primrose  of  the  later  year, 

As  not  unlike  to  that  of  Spring. 


408  IN    XIEMORIAM. 


LXXXIV. 

Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air, 

That  rollest  from  the  gorgeous  gloom 
Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 

And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 

The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below 

Through  all  the  dewy-tasselled  wood, 
And  shadowing  down  the  homed  flood 

In  ripples,  fan  my  brows  and  blow 

The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 

The  full  new  life  that  feeds  thy  breath 
Throughout  my  frame,  till  Doubt  and  Death, 

111  brethren,  let  the  fancy  fly 

From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas, 

On  leagues  .of  odor  streaming  far, 
To  where,  in  yonder  orient  star, 

A  hundred  spirits  whisper  "  Peace." 


IN    MEMOEIAM.  409 


LXXXV. 

1  PASSED  beside  the  reverend  walls 

In  which  of  old  I  wore  the  gown  ; 
I  roved  at  random  through  the  town, 

And  saw  the  tumult  of  the  halls ; 

And  heard  once  more  in  college  fanes 

The  storm  their  high-built  organ?  make, 
And  thunder-music,  rolling,  shake 

The  prophets  blazoned  on  the  panes ; 

And  caught  once  more  the  distant  shout, 
The  measured  pulse  of  racing  oars 
Among  the  willows  ;  paced  the  shores 

And  many  a  bridge,  and  all  about 

The  same  gray  flats  again,  and  felt 

The  same,  but  not  the  same ;  and  last, 
Up  that  long  walk  of  limes  I  passed. 

To  see  the  rooms  in  which  he  dwelt. 

VOL.    J 


410  IX    MEilORIAM. 

Another  name  was  on  the  door : 

1  lingered ;  all  within  was  noise 

Of  songs,  and  clapping  hands,  and  boys 

That  crashed  the  glass,  and  beat  the  floor ; 

Where  once  we  held  debate,  a  band 

Of  youthful  friends,  on  mind  and  art, 
And  labor,  and  the  changing  mart, 

And  all  the  framework  of  the  land ; 

When  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair, 

But  send  it  slackly  from  the  string ; 
And  one  would  pierce  an  outer  ring, 

And  one  an  inner,  here  and  there ; 

And  last,  the  master-bowman,  he 

Would  cleave  the  mark.     A  willing  ear 
We  lent  him.     Who,  but  hung  to  hear 

The  rapt  oration  flowing  free 

From  point  to  point  with  power  and  grace, 
And  music  in  the  bounds  of  law, 
To  those  conclusions  when  we  saw 

The  God  within  him  light  his  face, 


lift    M£.MOillAM.  -iii 


And  seem  to  lift  the  form,  and  glow 
In  azure  orbits  heavenly-wise  ; 
And  over  those  ethereal  eyes 

The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo. 


412>  IN    MEMOUIAM- 


LXXXVl. 


Wild  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet, 

Rings  Eden  through  the  budded  quicks, 
O,  tell  me  where  the  senses  mix, 

0,  tell  me  where  the  passions  meet. 

Whence  radiate  :  fierce  extremes  employ 
Thy  spirits  in  the  dusking  leaf. 
And  in  the  midmost  heart  of  grief 

Thy  passion  clasps  a  secret  joy : 

And  I,  —  my  harp  would  prelude  woe,  — 
I  cannot  all  command  the  strings  ; 
The  glory  of  the  sum  of  things 

Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 


IV    MTlArORIAM.  413 


Lxxrvii. 

Witch-elms,  that  counterchange  the  floor 
Of  this  flat  lawii  with  dusk  and  bright ; 
And  thou,  with  all  thy  breadth  and  height 

Of  foliage,  towering  sycamore ; 

How  often,  hither  wandering  down, 

My  Arthur  found  your  shadows  fair, 
And  shook  to  all  the  liberal  air 

The  dust  and  din  and  steam  of  town ! 

He  brought  an  eye  for  all  he  saw  ; 

He  mixed  in  all  our  simple  sports ; 

They  pleased  him,  fresh  from  brawling  court? 
And  dusky  purlieus  of  the  law. 

O  joy  to  him,  in  this  retreat, 

Immantled  in  ambrosial  dark, 
To  drink  the  cooler  air,  and  mark 

The  landscape  winking  through  the  heat ! 


414  IN    MEMOAlAX. 

O  sound  to  rout  the  brood  of  cares, 

The  sweep  of  scythe  in  morning  dew 
The  gust  that  round  the  garden  flew. 

And  tumbled  half  the  mellowing  pears  ! 

0  bliss,  when  all  in  circle  drawn 

About  him,  heart  and  ear  were  fed, 
To  hear  him,  as  he  lay  and  read 

The  Tuscan  poets  on  the  lawn : 

Or  in  the  all-golden  afternoon 

A  guest,  or  happy  sister,  sung, 

Or  here  she  brought  the  harp,  and  flung 

A  ballad  to  the  brightening  moon : 

Nor  less  it  pleased,  in  livelier  moods, 
Beyond  the  bounding  hill  to  stray. 
And  break  the  livelong  summer  day 

With  banquet  in  the  distant  woods ; 

Whereat  we  glanced  from  theme  to  theme, 
Discussed  the  books  to  love  or  hate, 
Or  touched  the  changes  of  the  state, 

Or  threaded  some  Socratic  dream ; 


IN    MEMOKIAM.  415 

But  if  I  praised  the  busy  town, 

He  loved  to  rail  against  it  still, 
For  "  ground  in  yonder  social  mill, 

We  rub  each  other's  angles  down, 

"  And  merge,"  he  said,  "  in  form  and  gloss 
The  picturesque  of  man  and  man." 
We  talked  :  the  stream  beneath  us  ran, 

The  wine-flask  lying  couched  in  moss, 

Or  cooled  within  the  glooming  wave, 

And  last,  returning  from  afar, 

Before  the  crimson-circled  star 
Had  fallen  into  her  father's  grave, 

And  brushing  ankle-deep  in  flowers, 

We  heard  behind  the  woodbine  veil 
The  milk  that  bubbled  in  the  pail, 

And  buzzings  of  the  honeyed  hours. 


416  .  IN    MEMOEIAM. 


LXXXVIII. 

He  tasted  love  with  half  his  mind, 

Nor  ever  drank  the  inviolate  spring 
Where  nighest  heaven,  vv^ho  first  could  fling 

This  bitter  seed  among  mankind  ; 

That  could  the  dead,  whose  dying  eyes 

Were  closed  with  wail,  resume  their  life, 
They  would  but  find  in  child  and  wife 

An  iron  welcome  when  they  rise : 

'T  was  well,  indeed,  when  warm  with  wine. 
To  pledge  them  with  a  kindly  tear : 
To  talk  them  over,  to  wish  them  here. 

To  count  their  memories  half  divine ; 

But  if  they  came  who  passed  away, 

Behold  their  brides  in  other  hands  : 
The  hard  heir  strides  about  their  lands, 

And  vvill  not  yield  them  for  a  day. 


IN    3VIEM0RIAM,  417 

Vea,  though  their  sons  were  none  of  these, 
Not  less  the  yet-loved  sire  would  make 
Confusion  worse  than  death,  and  shake 

The  pillars  of  domestic  peace. 

Ah  dear,  but  come  thou  back  to  me : 

Whatever  change  the  years  have  wrought, 
I  find  not  yet  one  lonely  thought 

That  cries  against  my  wish  for  thee. 


^18  IN    MEMOKIAM. 


Lxxxrx. 

When  rosy  plumelets  tuft  the  larch, 

And  rarely  pipes  the  mounted  thrush  ' 
Or  underneath  the  barren  bush 

Flits  by  the  sea-blue  bird  of  March  ; 

Come,  wear  the  form  by  which  I  know 
Thy  spirit  in  time  among  thy  peers  ; 
The  hope  of  unaccomplished  years 

Be  large  and  lucid  round  thy  brow. 

When  summer's  hourly-mellowing  change 
May  breathe  with  many  roses  sweet 
Upon  the  thousand  waves  of  wheat, 

That  ripple  round  the  lonely  grange ; 

Come  ;  not  in  watches  of  the  night, 

But  where  the  sunbeam  broodeth  warm, 
Come,  beauteous  in  thine  after  form, 

And  like  a  finer  light  in  light. 


IN    MEMOHIAM.  419 


xc. 

If  any  vision  should  reveal 

Thy  likeness,  I  might  count  it  vain, 
As  but  the  canker  of  (he  brain  ; 

Yea,  though  it  spake  and  made  appeal 

To  chances  where  our  lots  were  cast 
Together  in  the  days  behind, 
I  might  but  say,  I  hear  a  wind 

Of  memory  murmuring  the  past. 

Yea,  though  it  spake  and  bared  to  view 
A  fact  within  the  coming  year ; 
And  though  the  months,  revolving  neat, 

Should  prove  the  phantom-warning  true, 

They  might  not  seem  thy  prophecies, 
But  spiritual  presentiments. 
And  such  refraction  of  events 

As  often  rises  ere  they  rise. 


420  IN    MEMOKIAM. 


XCI. 

1  SHALL  not  see  thee.  Dare  1  say 
No  spirit  ever  brake  the  band 
That  stays  him  from  the  native  land 

Wliere  first  he  walked  when  clasped  in  clay  ? 

No  visual  shade  of  some  one  lost, 

But  he,  the  Spirit  himself,  may  come 
Where  all  the  nerve  of  sense  is  numb ; 

Spirit  to  Spirit,  Ghost  to  Ghost. 

0,  therefore  from  thy  sightless  range 
With  gods  in  unconjectured  bliss, 
O,  from  the  distance  of  the  abyss 

Of  tenfold-complicated  change, 

Descend,  and  touch,  and  enter ;  hear 

The  wish  too  strong  for  words  to  name ; 
That  in  this  blindness  of  the  frame 

My  Ghost  may  feel  that  thine  is  near. 


IN    MEMOKIAM.  421 


xcn. 

How  pure  at  h«art  and  sound  in  head. 

With  what  divine  affections  bold, 

Should  be  the  man  whose  thought  would  hold 
An  hour's  communion  with  the  dead. 

In  vain  shalt  thou,  or  any,  call 

The  spirits  from  their  golden  day, 
Except,  like  them,  thou  too  canst  say 

My  spirit  is  at  peace  with  all. 

They  haunt  the  silence  of  the  breast. 

Imaginations  calm  and  fair. 

The  memory  like  a  cloudless  air, 
The  conscience  as  a  sea  at  rest : 

But  when  the  heart  is  full  of  din, 

And  doubt  beside  the  portal  waits, 
They  can  but  listen  at  the  gates, 

And  hear  the  household  jar  within. 


422  I^    MEMOKIAM. 


xcm. 

By  night  we  lingered  on  the  lawn, 
For  under  foot  the  herb  was  dry ; 
And  genial  warmth  ;  and  o'er  the  sky 

The  silvery  haze  of  summer  drawn ; 

And  calm  that  let  the  tapers  burn 

Unwavering  :  not  a  cricket  chirred  : 
The  brook  alone  far  off  was  heard, 

And  on  the  board  the  fluttering  urn : 

And  bats  went  round  in  fragrant  skies, 
And  wheeled  or  lit  the  filmy  shapes 
That  haunt  the  dusk,  with  ermine  capes 

And  woolly  breasts  and  beaded  eyes ; 

While  now  we  sang  old  songs  that  pealed 

From  knoll  to  knoll,  where,  couched  at  ease, 
The  white  kine  glimmered,  and  the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  423 

But  when  those  others,  one  by  one. 

Withdrew  themselves  from  me  and  night, 

And  in  the  house  light  after  light 
Went  out,  and  1  was  all  alone, 

A  hunger  seized  my  heart ;  I  read 

Of  that  glad  year  which  once  had  been. 

In  those  fallen  leaves  which  kept  their  gretm, 

The  noble  letters  of  the  dead : 

And  strangely  on  the  silence  broke 

The  silent-speaking  words,  and  strange 
Was  love's  dumb  cry  defying  change 

To  test  his  worth  ;  and  strangely  spoke 

The  faith,  the  vigor,  bold  to  dwell 

On  doubts  that  drive  the  coward  back, 
And  keen  through  wordy  snares  to  track 

Suggestion  to  her  inmost  cell. 

So  word  by  word,  and  line  by  line. 

The  dead  man  touched  me  from  the  past, 
And  all  at  once  it  seemed  at  last 

His  living  soul  was  flashed  on  mine. 


424  IN    TVIEMOKIAM. 

And  mine  in  his  was  wound,  and  whirled 
About  empyreal  heights  of  thought, 
And  came  on  that  which  is,  and  caught 

The  deep  pulsations  of  the  world, 

Ionian  music  measuring  out 

The  steps  of  Time,  —  the  shocks  of  Chance, — 
The  blows  of  Death.     At  length  my  trance 

Was  cancelled,  stricken  through  with  doubt. 

Vague  words  !  but  ah,  how  hard  to  frame 
In  matter-moulded  forms  of  speech. 
Or  even  for  intellect  to  reach 

Through  memory  that  which  I  became : 

Till  now  the  doubtful  dusk  revealed 

The  knolls  once  more  where,  couched  at  ease, 
The  white  kine  glimmered,  and  the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field  : 

And  sucked  from  out  the  distant  gloom, 
A  breeze  began  to  tremble  o'er 
The  large  leaves  of  the  sycamore, 

And  fluctuate  all  the  still  perfume  ; 


IN    MEMOEIAM.  42o 

And  gathering-  freshiier  overhead, 

Rocked  the  full-foliaged  ehns,  and  swung 

The  heavy-folded  rose,  and  flung 
'file  lilies  to  and  fro,  and  said 

"  The  dawm,  the  dawn,"  and  died  away ; 
And  East  and  West,  without  a  breath, 
Mixed  their  dim  lights,  like  life  and  death. 

To  broaden  into  boundless  day, 

L.  I.  28 


42G  IN    MEMOKIAM, 


XCIV. 

Yor  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn, 

Sweet-hearted,  you,  whose  light-blue  eyes 
Are  tender  over  drowning  flies, 

You  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

I  know  not :  one  indeed  I  knew 

In  many  a  subtile  question  versed, 
Who  touched  a  jarring  lyre  at  first, 

But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true  : 

Perplexed  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, 

At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 

There  lives  more  faith  in  honest  doubt, 
Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

He  fought  his  doubts  and  gathered  strength, 
He  would  not  make  his  judgment  blind, 
He  faced  the  spectres  of  the  mind 

And  laid  them :  thus  he  came  at  lenoch 


IN    MEMOKIAM.  427 

To  find  a  stronger  faith  his  own; 

And  Power  was  with  him  in  the  night, 
Which  makes  the  darkness  and  the  light, 

And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone, 

But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old, 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold. 

Although  the  tem-pest  blew  so  loud. 


428  IN    MEMOKIAM. 


XCV. 

My  love  ha?  talked  with  rocks  and  trees, 
He  finds  on  misty  mountain-ground 
His  own  vast  shadow  glory-crowned, 

He  sees  hhnself  in  all  he  sees. 

Two  partners  of  a  married  life,  — 

I  looked  on  these  and  thought  of  thee 
In  vastness  and  in  mystery, 

And  of  my  spirit  as  of  a  wife. 

These  two,  —  they  dwelt  with  eye  on  eye. 
Their  hearts  of  old  have  beat  in  tune. 
Their  meetings  made  December  June, 

Their  every  parting  was  to  die. 

Their  love  has  never  passed  away ; 
The  days  she  never  can  forget 
Are  earnest  that  he  loves  her  yet, 

Whate'er  the  faithless  people  say. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  429 

Her  life  is  lone,  he  sits  apart, 

He  loves  her  yet,  she  will  not  weep. 
Though,  rapt  in  matters  dark  and  deep, 

He  seems  to  slight  her  simple  heart. 

He  thrids  the  labyrinth  of  the  mind, 

He  reads  the  secret  of  the  star, 

He  seems  so  near  and  yet  so  far. 
He  looks  so  cold :  she  thinks  him  kind. 

She  keeps  the  gift  of  years  before, 

A  withered  violet  is  her  bliss  ; 

She  knows  not  what  his  greatness  is , 
For  that,  for  all,  she  loves  him  more. 

For  him  she  plays,  to  him  she  sings 

Of  early  faith  and  plighted  vows ; 

She  knows  but  matters  of  the  house, 
And  he,  he  knows  a  thousand  things. 

Her  faith  is  fixed  and  cannot  move. 

She  darkly  feels  him  great  and  wise, 
She  dwells  on  him  with  faithful  eyes, 

"  I  cannot  understand  :  I  love." 


430  IN    MEMORIAM, 


XCVI. 

You  leave  us ;  you  will  see  the  Rhine, 
And  those  fair  hills  I  sailed  below, 
When  I  was  there  with  him ;  and  go 

By  summer  belts  of  wheat  and  vine 

To  where  he  breathed  his  latest  breath, 
That  City.     All  her  splendor  seems 
No  livelier  than  the  wisp  that  gleams 

On  Lethe  in  the  eyes  of  Death. 

Let  her  great  Danube  rolling  fair 

Enwind  her  isles,  unmarked  of  me  : 
I  have  not  seen,  I  will  not  see 

Vienna :  rather  dream  that  there, 

A  treble  darkness,  evil  haunts 

The  birth,  the  bridal;  friend  from  friei 
Is  oftener  parted,  fathers  bend 

Above  more  graves,  a  thousand  wants 


IX    MEMOEIAM,  431 

Gnar  at  the  heels  of  men,  and  prey 

By  each  cold  hearth,  and  sadness  flings 
Her  shadow  on  the  blaze  of  kings  ; 

And  yet  myself  have  heard  him  say, 

That  not  in  any  mother  town 

With  statelier  progress  to  and  fro 
The  double  tides  of  chariots  flow 

By  park  and  suburb  ur-der  brown 

Of  lustier  leaves  ;  nor  more  content, 
He  told  me,  lives  in  any  crowd, 
When  all  is  gay  with  lamps,  and  loud 

With  sport  and  song,  in  booth  and  tent, 

Imperial  halls,  or  open  plain ; 

And  wheels  the  circled  dance,  and  breaks 

The  rocket  molten  into  flakes 
Of  crimson  or  in  emerald  rain. 


432  IN    MEMOEIAM. 


xcvn. 

RisEST  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 
So  loud  with  voices  of  the  birds, 
So  thick  with  lowings  of  the  herds, 

Day,  when  I  lost  the  flower  of  men ; 

Who  tremblest  through  thy  darlding  red 
On  yon  swollen  brook  that  bubbles  fast 
By  meadows  breathing  of  the  past, 

And  woodlands  holy  to  the  dead ; 

Who  murmurest  in  the  foliaged  eaves 
A  song  that  slights  the  coming  care. 
And  Autumn  laying  here  and  there 

A  fiery  finger  on  the  leaves; 

Who  wakenest  with  thy  balmy  breath 
To  myriads  on  the  genial  earth. 
Memories  of  bridal,  or  of  birth, 

And  unto  myriads  more,  of  death. 


IN    MEMOKIAM.  433 

O,  wheresoever  those  may  be, 

Betwixt  the  slumber  of  the  poles, 
To-day  they  count  as  kindred  souls  ; 

They  know  me  not.  but  mourn  with  me. 


434  IX    MEM  OBI  AM. 


XCVIII. 

I  WAKE,  1  rise ;  from  end  to  end, 

Of  all  the  landscape  underneath 

I  find  no  place  that  does  not  breathe 

Some  gracious  memory  of  my  friend : 

No  gray  old  grange,  or  lonely  fold. 

Or  low  morass  and  whispering  reed, 
Or  simple  stile  from  mead  to  mead, 

Or  sheepwalk  up  the  windy  wold  ; 

Nor  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  haw 

That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill, 
Nor  quarry  trenched  along  the  hill, 

And  haunted  by  the  wrangling  daw; 

Nor  runlet  tinkling  from  the  rock 

Nor  pastoral  rivulet  that  swerves 

To  left  and  right  through  meadowy  curves, 

That  feed  the  mothers  of  the  flock  ; 


IN    MEMORIAM.  435 

But  each  has  pleased  a  kindred  eye, 
And  each  reflects  a  kindh'er  day ; 
And,  leaving  these,  to  pass  away, 

1  think  once  more  he  seems  to  die. 


436  IN    MEMOKIAM. 


xcrx. 

Unwatched  the  garden  bough  shall  swaj'^, 
The  tender  blossom  flutter  down, 
Unloved  that  beech  will  gather  brown, 

This  maple  burn  itself  away  ; 

Unloved,  the  sunflower,  shining  fair, 

Ray  round  with  flames  her  disk  of  seed, 
And  many  a  rose-carnation  feed 

With  summer  spice  the  humming  air; 

Unloved,  by  many  a  sandy  bar. 

The  brook  shall  babble  down  the  plain, 
At  noon,  or  when  the  lesser  wain 

Is  twisting  round  the  polar  star ; 

Uncared  for,  gird  the  windy  grove, 

And  flood  the  haunts  of  hern  and  crake; 
Or  into  silver  arrows  break 

The  sailing  moon  in  creek  and  cove; 


IN-    JIEMORIAM.  437 

Till  from  the  garden  and  the  wild 

A  fresh  association  blow, 

And  year  by  year  the  landscape  grow 
Familiar  to  the  stranger's  child; 

As  year  by  year  the  laborer  tills 

His  wonted  glebe,  or  lops  the  glades ; 
And  year  by  year  our  memory  fades 

From  all  the  circle  of  the  hills. 


438  IN    MEMORIAM. 


We  leave  the  well-beloved  place 

Where  first  we  gazed  upon  the  sky ; 
The  roofs  that  heard  our  earliest  cry 

Will  shelter  one  of  stranger  race. 

We  go,  but  ere  we  go  from  home, 

As  down  the  garden-walks  I  move, 
Two  spirits  of  a  diverse  love 

Contend  for  loving  masterdom. 

One  whispers,  "  Here  thy  boyhood  sung 
Long  since  its  matin  song,  and  heard 
The  low  love-language  of  the  bird 

In  native  hazels  tassel-hung." 

The  other  answers,  "  Yea,  but  here 

Thy  feet  have  strayed  in  after  hours 
With  thy  lost  friend  among  the  bowers. 

And  this  hath  made  them  trebly  dear." 


IN    MEMORIAM.  439 

These  two  have  striven  half  the  day, 

And  each  prefers  his  separate  claim, 
Poor  rivals  in  a  losing  game, 

That  will  not  yield  each  other  way. 

I  turn  to  go  :  iny  feet  are  set 

To  leave  the  pleasant  fields  and  farms ; 

They  mix  in  one  another's  arms 
To  one  pure  image  of  regret. 


440  IN    JIE.MOUIAM. 


CI. 

On  that  last  night  before  we  went 

From  out  the  doors  where  I  wa:>  bred, 
I  dreamed  a  vision  of  the  dead, 

Which  left  my  after  morn  content. 

Methouqht  1  dwelt  within  a  hall, 

And  maidens  with  me;  distant  hills 
From  hidden  summits  fed  with  rills 

A  river  sliding  by  the  wall. 

The  hall  with  harp  and  carol  rano-. 

They  sang  of  what  is  wise  and  good 
And  graceful.     In  the  centre  stood 

A  statue  veiled,  to  which  they  sang ; 

And  which,  though  veiled,  was  known  to  me, 
The  shape  of  him  1  loved,  and  love 
Forever :  then  flew  in  a  dove. 

And  brought  a  summons  from  the  sea  : 


IN  mem:oeiam.  441 

And  when  they  learnt  that  I  must  go, 

They  wept  and  wailed,  but  led  the  way 
To  where  a  little  shallop  lay 

At  anchor  in  the  flood  below  ; 

And  on  by  many  a  level  mead, 

And  shadowing  bluff  that  made  the  bank>, 

We  glided,  winding  under  ranks 
Of  iris,  and  the  golden  reed ; 

And  still,  as  vaster  grew  the  shore, 

And  rolled  the  floods  in  grander  space, 
The  maidens  gathered  strength  and  grace. 

And  presence  lordlier  than  before ; 

And  I  myself,  who  sat  apart 

And  watched  them,  waxed  in  every  limb ; 

I  felt  the  thews  of  Anakim, 
The  pulses  of  a  Titan's  heart ; 

As  one  would  sing  the  death  of  war, 
And  one  would  chant  the  history 
Of  that  great  race,  which  is  to  be, 
And  one  the  shaping  of  a  star* 
VOL.  I.  2y 


442  IX    MEMOEIAM. 

Until  the  forward-creepinof  tides 

Began  to  foam,  and  we  to  draw 
From  deep  to  deep,  to  where  we  saw 

A  great  ship  lift  her  shining  sides. 

The  man  we  loved  was  there  on  deck, 
Rut  thrice  as  large  as  man  he  bent 
To  greet  us.     Up  the  side  I  went, 

And  fell  in  silence  on  his  neck : 

Whereat  those  maidens,  with  one  mind, 

Bewailed  their  lot ;  I  did  them  wrong : 

"  We  served  thee  here,"  they  said,  "  so  long, 

And  wilt  thou  leave  us  now  behind  ?" 

So  rapt  I  was,  they  could  not  win 
An  answer  from  my  lips,  but  he 
Replying,  "  Enter  likewise  ye 

And  go  with  us : "  they  entered  in. 

And  while  the  wind  began  to  sweep 
A  music  out  of  sheet  and  shroud, 
We  steered  her  toward  a  crinisnn  cioud 

Tnat  landlike  slept  along  the  deep. 


IN    MEMORIAM  143 


CII. 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Chnst; 
The  moon  is  hid,  the  night  is  still : 
A  single  church  below  the  hill 

Is  pealing,  folded  in  the  mist. 

A  smgle  peal  of  bells  below, 

That  wakens  at  this  hour  of  rest 
A  single  murmur  in  the  breast, 

That  these  are  not  the  bells  I  know. 

Like  strangers'  voices  here  they  sound, 
In  lands  where  not  a  memory  strays, 
Nor  landmark  breathes  of  other  days. 

But  all  is  new,  unhallowed  ground. 


444  IN    MEMOEIAM. 


cm. 

This  holly  by  the  cottage-eave, 

To-night,  ungathered,  shall  it  stand  : 
We  live  within  the  stranger's  land, 

And  strangely  falls  our  Christmas  eve. 

Our  father's  dust  is  left  alone 

And  silent  under  other  snows  : 

There  in  due  time  the  woodbine  blows, 

The  violet  comes,  but  we  are  gone. 

No  more  shall  wayward  grief  abuse 

The  genial  hour  with  mask  and  mime  ; 
For  change  of  place,  like  growth  n{  time, 

Has  broke  the  bond  of  dying  use. 

Let  cares  their  petty  shadows  cast, 

By  which  our  lives  are  chiefly  proved, 
A  little  spare  the  night  I  loved, 

And  hold  it  solemn  to  the  past. 


TM    MEilOKIAM.  445 

But  let  no  footstep  beat  the  floor, 

Now  bowl  of  wassail  mantle  warm : 
For  who  would  keep  an  ancient  form 

Through  which  the  spirit  breathes  no  more  ? 

Be  neither  song,  nor  game,  nor  feast, 

Nor  harp  be  touched,  nor  flute  be  blown  ; 
No  dance,  no  motion,  save  alone 

What  lightens  in  the  lucid  east 

Of  rising  worlds  by  yonder  wood. 

Long  sleeps  the  summer  in  the  seed ; 

Run  out  your  measured  arcs,  and  lead 
The  closing  cycle  rich  in  good. 


446  IN    MEMOKIAM. 


CIV. 


RiKG  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light . 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

King  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow : 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind. 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  ?  slowly  dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife  ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 


IN    MEMOBIAM.  447 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin. 

The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times  ; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes. 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood. 

The  civic  slander  and  the  spite ; 

Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right. 
Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease. 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old. 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand ; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ringf  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 


448  IN    MEMORIAM. 


CV. 

It  is  the  day  when  he  was  bom, 

A  bitter  day  that  early  sank 

Behind  a  purple-frosty  bank 
Of  vapor,  leaving  night  forlorn. 

The  time  admits  not  flowers  or  leaves 
To  deck  the  banquet.     Fiercely  fiiea 
The  blast  of  North  and  East,  and  ice 

Makes  daggers  at  the  sharpened  eaves, 

And  bristles  all  the  brakes  and  thorns 
To  yon  hard  crescent,  as  she  hangs 
Above  the  wood  which  grides  and  clangs 

Its  leafless  ribs  and  iron  horns 

Together,  in  the  drifts  that  pass, 

To  darken  on  the  rolling  brine 

That  breaks  the  coast.     But  fetch  the  wine. 
Arrange  the  board  and  brim  the  glass ; 


IN    MEMOKIAM.  449 

Briag  in  great  logs  and  let  them  he, 

To  make  a  solid  core  of  heat ; 

Be  cheerful-minded,  talk  and  treat 
Of  all  things  even  as  he  were  by  : 

We  keep  the  day.  With  festal  cheer, 
With  books  and  music,  surely  we 
Will  drink  to  him,  whate'er  he  be, 

And  sing  the  songs  he  loved  to  hear. 


450  IN    MEMOEIAM. 


1  WILL  not  shut  me  from  my  kind ; 

And,  lest  1  stiffen  into  stone, 

I  will  not  eat  my  heart  alone, 
Nor  feed  with  sighs  a  passing  wind  : 

What  profit  lies  in  barren  faith, 

And  vacant  yearning,  though  with  might 
To  scale  the  heaven's  highest  height, 

Or  dive  below  the  wells  of  Death  ? 

What  find  I  in  the  highest  place, 

But  mine  own  phantom  chanting  hymns  ? 

And  on  the  depths  of  death  there  swims 
The  reflex  of  a  human  face. 


1  '11  rather  take  what  fruit  may  be 
Of  sorrow  under  human  skies  : 
'T  is  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise. 

Whatever  wisdom  sleep  with  thee. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  451 


Heart-affluence  in  discursive  talk 

From  household  fountains  never  dry ; 
The  critic  clearness  of  an  eye, 

That  saw  through  all  the  Muses'  walk ; 

Seraphic  intellect  and  force 

To  seize  and  throw  the  doubts  of  man ; 

Impassioned  logic,  which  outran 
The  hearer  in  its  fiery  course ; 

High  nature  amorous  of  the  good, 

But  touched  with  no  ascetic  gloom ; 
And  passion  pure  in  snowy  bloom 

Through  all  the  years  of  April  blood  ; 

A  love  of  freedom  rarely  felt, 

Of  freedom  in  her  regal  seat 

Of  England,  not  the  schoolboy  heat, 

The  blind  hysterics  of  the  Celt ; 


452  IN    MEMORIAM. 

And  manhood  fused  with  female  grace 
In  such  a  sort,  the  child  would  twine 
A  trustful  hand,  unasked,  in  thine, 

And  find  his  comfort  in  thy  face  ; 

All  these  have  been,  and  thee  mine  eyes 

Have  looked  on  :  if  they  looked  in  vain, 
My  shame  is  greater  who  remain, 

Nor  let  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 


IK    MEMORIAM.  453 


cvni. 

Thv  converse-  drew  us  with  delight, 
The  men  of  rathe  and  riper  years  : 
The  feeble  soul,  a  haunt  of  fears, 

Forgot  his  weakness  in  thy  sight. 

On  thee  the  loyal-hearted  hung, 

The  proud  was  half  disarmed  of  pride, 
Nor  cared  the  serpent  at  thy  side 

To  flicker  with  his  treble  tongue. 

The  stern  were  mild  when  thou  wert  by. 
The  flippant  put  himself  to  school 
And  heard  thee,  and  the  brazen  fool 

Was  softened,  and  he  knew  not  why ; 

While  1,  thy  dearest,  sat  apart, 

And  felt  thy  triumph  was  as  m]ne ; 

And  loved  them  mors,  that  they  were  thine, 

The  graceful  tact,  the  Christian  art  • 


464  TX    MEMOKIAM. 

Not  mine  the  sweetness  or  the  skill, 

But  mine  the  love  that  will  not  tire, 
And,  bom  of  love,  the  vague  desire 

That  spurs  an  imitative  will. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  455 


CIX. 

The  churl  in  spirit,  up  or  down, 

Alonjt  the  scale  of  ranks,  through  all 
To  who  may  grasp  a  golden  ball 

By  l)lood  a  king,  at  heart  a  clown  ; 

The  churl  in  spirit,  howe'er  he  veil 

His  want  in  forms  for  fashion's  sake, 
Will  let  his  coltish  nature  break 

At  seasons  through  the  gilded  pale  : 

For  who  can  always  act?  but  he, 

To  whom  a  thousand  memories  call. 
Not  being  less  but  more  than  all 

The  gentleness  he  seemed  to  be, 

So  wore  his  outward  best,  and  joined 
Each  office  of  the  social  hour 
To  noble  manners,  as  the  flower 

And  native  growth  of  noble  mind; 


456  IX    MEMORIAM. 

Nor  ever  narrowness  or  spite, 
Or  villain  fancy  fleeting  by, 
Drew  in  the  expression  of  an  eye 

Where  God  and  Nature  met  in  light, 

And  thus  he  bore  without  abuse 

The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman 
Defamed  by  every  charlatan, 

And  soiled  with  all  ignoble  use. 


IX    MEMORIAM.  457 


ex. 

High  wisdom  holds  my  wisdom  less, 

That  I,  who  gaze  with  temperate  eyes 
On  glorious  insufficiencies, 

Set  light  by  narrower  perfectness. 

But  thou,  that  fiUest  all  the  room 
Of  all  my  love,  art  reason  why 
I  seem  to  cast  a  careless  eye 

On  souls,  the  lesser  lords  of  doom. 

For  what  wert  thou  ?  some  novel  power 
Sprang  up  for  ever  at  a  touch, 
And  hope  could  never  hope  too  much, 

In  watching  thee  from  hour  to  hour, 

Large  elements  in  order  uiov-ght, 

And  tracts  of  calm  from  tempest  made, 
And  world-wide  fluctuation  swayed 

In  vassal  tides  that  followed  thouo-ht. 

VOL.    I.  oU 


458  IX    MEMOEIAM. 


cn. 

'T  IS  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise : 

Ye.  now  much  wisdom  sleeps  with  thee 
Which  not  alone  had  guided  me, 

But  served  the  seasons  that  may  rise ; 

For  can  I  doubt  who  knew  thee  keen 
In  intellect,  with  force  and  skill 
To  strive,  to  fashion,  to  fulfil,  — 

I  doubt  not  what  thou  wouldst  have  been : 

A  life  in  civic  action  warm, 

A  soul  on  highest  mission  sent, 
A  potent  voice  of  Parliament, 

A  pillar  steadfast  in  the  storm. 

Should  licensed  boldness  gather  force, 
Becoming,  when  the  time  has  birth, 
A  lever  to  uplift  the  earth 

And  roll  it  in  another  course, 


IN    MEMOBIAM.  459 

With  many  shocks  thai  come  and  go, 
With  agonies,  with  energies, 
With  overthrowings,  and  with  cries, 

And  undulations  to  and  fro. 


460  IN    MEMOEIAM. 


cxn. 

Who  loves  not  knowledge  ?     Who  shall  rail 
Against  her  beauty  ?     May  she  mix 
With  men  and  prosper !     Who  shall  fix 

Her  pillars  ?     Let  her  work  prevail. 

But  on  her  forehead  sits  a  fire : 

She  sets  her  forward  countenance 
And  leaps  into  the  future  chance, 

Submitting  all  things  to  desire. 

Half-grown  as  yet,  a  child,  and  vain, — 
She  cannot  fight  the  fear  of  death. 
What  is  she,  cut  from  love  and  faith, 

But  some  wild  Pallas  from  the  brain 

Of  Demons?  fiery-hot  to  burst 

All  barriers  in  her  onward  race 

For  power.     Let  her  know  her  place  ; 

She  is  the  second,  not  the  first. 


IN    MEMOKIAM.  461 

A  higher  hand  must  make  her  mild, 
If  all  be  not  in  vain  ;  and  guide 
Her  footsteps,  moving  side  by  side 

With  wisdom,  like  the  younger  child  ; 

For  she  is  earthly  of  the  mind, 

But  wisdom  heavenly  of  the  soul. 
0  friend,  who  earnest  to  thy  goal 

So  early,  leaving  me  behind, 

I  would  the  great  world  grew  like  thee. 
Who  grewest  not  alone  in  power 
And  knowledge,  but  from  hour  lo  hour 

In  reverence  and  in  charity. 


462  I>'    MEMORIAM. 


CXIII. 

Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow, 
Now  burgeons  every  maze  of  quick 
About  the  flowering  squares,  and  thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

* 
Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long, 

The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue, 

And  drowned  in  yonder  living  blue 

The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song.  . 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea. 
The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  vale, 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 

On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea  ; 

Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  greening  gleam,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change  their  sky 

To  build  and  brood ;  that  live  their  lives 


IN    MEMORIAM.  463 

From  land  to  land  ;  and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too ;  and  my  regret 
Becomes  an  April  violet, 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 


464  IN    MEMORIAH. 


CXTV. 

Is  it,  then,  regret  for  buried  time 

That  keenlier  in  sweet  April  wakes, 
And  meets  the  year,  and  gives  and  takes 

The  colors  of  the  crescent  prime  ? 

• 
Not  all ;  the  songs     he  stirring  air, 
The  life  re-orient  but  of  dust. 
Cry  through  the  sense  to  hearten  trust 
In  that  which  made  the  world  so  fair. 

Not  all  regret ;  the  face  will  shine 
Upon  me,  while  I  muse  alone  ; 
The  dear,  dear  voice  that  I  have  known 

Will  speak  to  me  of  me  and  mine  : 

Yet  less  of  sorrow  lives  in  me 

For  days  of  happy  commune  dead  ; 
Less  yearning  for  the  friendship  fled, 

Than  some  strons:  bond  which  is  to  be. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  465 


O  DAYS  and  hours,  your  work  is  this, 
To  hold  me  from  my  proper  place, 
A  little  while  from  his  embrace, 

For  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss  : 

That  out  of  distance  might  ensue 

Desire  of  nearness  doubly  sweet ; 
And  unto  meeting,  v.'hen  we  meet. 

Delight  a  hundredfold  accrue, 

For  every  grain  of  sand  that  runs, 

And  every  span  of  shade  that  steals, 
And  every  kiss  of  toothed  wheels, 

And  all  the  courses  of  the  suns. 


466 


IN    MEMORIAM. 


CXVI. 

Contemplate  all  this  work  of  time, 
The  giant  laboring  in  his  youth  ; 
Nor  dream  of  human  love  and  truth, 

As  dying  Nature's  earth  and  lime ; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day 
For  ever  nobler  ends.     They  say, 

The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began. 

And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms. 
The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic  storms, 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man ; 

Who  throve  and  branched  from  clime  to  clinif 
The  herald  of  a  higher  race, 
And  of  himself  in  higher  place, 

If  so  he  t3'pe  this  work  of  time 


IN    MEMORIAM.  407 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more ; 

And,  crowned  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course,  and  show 

That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore, 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom, 

And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears; 
And  dipped  in  baths  of  hissing  tears, 

And  battered  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.     Arise  ana  fly 

The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast ; 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast, 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 


408  IN    MEMOEIAM. 


crvii. 

Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 
So  quickly,  not  as  one  that  weeps 
1  come  once  more  ;  the  city  sleeps  ; 

1  smell  the  meadow  in  the  street ; 

I  hear  a  chirp  of  birds ;  I  see 

Betwixt  the  black  fronts  long  withdrawn 
A  light-blue  lane  of  early  dawn, 

And  think  of  early  days  and  thee, 

And  bless  thee,  for  thy  lips  are  bland, 

And  bright  the  friendship  of  thine  eye  ; 
And  in  my  thoughts  with  scarce  a  sigh 

1  take  the  pressure  of  thine  hand. 


IN    MEMOEIAM.  469 


CXVIII. 

I  TRUST  I  have  not  wasted  breath  : 
I  think  we  are  not  wholly  brain, 
Magnetic  mockeries  ;  not  in  vain. 

Like  Paul  with  beasts,  I  fought  with  Death , 

Not  only  cunning  casts  in  clay: 

Let  Science  prove  we  are,  and  then 
What  matters  Science  unto  men, 

At  least  to  me  ?     1  would  not  stay. 

Let  him,  tlie  wiser  man  who  springs 
Hereafter,  up  from  childhood  shape 
His  action  like  the  greater  ape, 

But  1  was  bom  to  other  things. 


470  IN    MEMOEIAM. 


CXIX. 

Sad  Hesper  o'er  the  buried  sun, 

And  ready,  thou,  to  die  with  him. 
Thou  watchest  all  things  ever  dim 

And  dimmer,  and  a  glory  done : 

The  team  is  loosened  from  the  wain, 
The  boat  is  drawn  upon  the  shore ; 
Thou  listenest  to  the  closing  door. 

And  life  is  darkened  in  the  brain. 

Bright  Phosphor,  fresher  for  the  night. 

By  thee  the  world's  great  work  is  heard 
Beginning,  and  the  wakeful  bird; 

Behind  thee  comes  the  greater  light : 

The  market-boat  is  on  the  stream, 

And  voices  hail  it  from  the  brink ; 
Thou  hear'st  the  village  hammer  clink, 

And  seest  the  moving  of  the  team. 


IX    MEMORIAL.  471 


Sweet  Hesper-Phosphor,  double  name 
For  what  is  one,  the  first,  the  last, 
Thou,  like  my  present  and  my  past, 

Thy  place  is  changed ,  thou  art  the  same. 


472 


MKMORIAM. 


cxx. 

O,  WAST  thou  with  me,  dearest,  then, 
While  1  rose  up  against  my  doom, 
And  strove  to  burst  the  folded  gloom, 

To  bare  the  eternal  Heavens  again, 

To  feel  once  more,  in  placid  awe, 
The  strong  imagination  roll 
A  sphere  of  stars  about  my  soul, 

In  all  her  motion  one  with  law  ? 


If  thou  wert  with  me,  and  the  grave 
Divide  us  not,  be  with  me  now, 
And  enter  in  at  breast  and  brow. 

Till  all  my  blood,  a  fuller  wave. 

Be  quickened  with  a  livelier  breath, 
And  like  an  inconsiderate  boy, 
As  in  the  former  flash  of  joy, 

I  slip  the  thoughts  of  life  and  death  ; 


I2T    MEIU^U&IAM.  473 

And  all  the  breeze  of  Fancy  blows, 

And  every  dew-drop  pamts  a  bov  ; 
The  wizard  lightnings  deeply  g\    if, 

And  every  thought  breaks  out  a  roso 
L.  I.  551 


474  IM    MEMOBIAM. 


There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the  tree. 
O  earth,  what  changes  hast  thou  seen  I 
There  where  the  long  street  roars,  hath  been 

The  stillness  of  the  central  sea. 

The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow 

From  form  to  form,  and  nothing  stands, 
They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands, 

Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves  and  go. 

But  in  my  spirit  will  1  dwell. 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it  true ; 

For  though  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 
1  cannot  think  the  thing  farewell. 


IN    MEMOBIAM.  476 


CXXII, 

That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless ; 

Our  dearest  faith,  our  ghastliest  doubt ; 

He,  They,  One,  All ;  within,  without ; 
The  Power  in  darkness  whom  we  guess ; 

I  found  Him  not  in  world  or  sun. 

Or  eagle's  wing,  or  insect's  eye  ; 

Nor  through  the  questions  men  may  try, 

The  petty  cobwebs  we  have  spun : 

If  e'er  when  faith  had  fallen  asleep, 

1  heard  a  voice,  "  Believe  no  more," 
And  heard  an  ever-breaking  shore 

That  tumbled  in  the  Godless  deep ; 

A  warmth  within  the  breast  would  melt 
The  freezing  reason's  colder  part, 
And  like  a  man  in  wrath  the  heart 

Stood  up  and  answered,  "  1  have  felt." 


476  IN    MEMOHIAM. 

No,  like  a  child  in  doubt  and  fear : 

But  that  blind  clamor  made  me  wise ; 
Then  was  I  as  a  child  that  cries, 

But,  crying,  knows  his  father  near; 

And  what  I  seem  beheld  again 

What  is,  and  no  man  understands ; 
And  out  of  darkness  came  the  hands 

That  reach  through  nature,  moulding  men. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  477 


CXXIU. 

Whatever  1  have  said  or  sung, 

Some  bitter  notes  my  harp  would  give, 
Yea,  though  there  often  seemed  to  live 

A  contradiction  on  the  tongue, 

Yet  Hope  had  never  lost  her  youth ; 

She  did  but  look  through  dimmer  eyes ; 

Or  Love  but  played  with  gracious  lies, 
Because  he  felt  so  fixed  in  truth : 

And  if  the  song  were  full  of  care, 

He  breathed  the  spirit  of  the  song; 
And  if  the  words  were  sweet  and  strong, 

He  set  his  royal  signet  there  : 

Abiding  with  me  till  I  sail 

To  seek  thee  on  the  mystic  deeps, 
And  this  electric  force,  that  keeps 

A  tliousand  pulses  dancing,  fail. 


478  IN    MEMORIAM. 


cxxur. 

Love  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King, 
And  in  his  presence  I  attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend, 

Which  every  hour  his  couriers  bring. 

Love  is  and  was  my  King  and  Lord, 
And  will  be,  though  as  yet  I  keep 
Within  his  court  on  earth,  and  sleep 

Encompassed  by  his  faithful  guard. 

And  hear  at  times  a  sentinel 

That  moves  about  from  place  to  place, 
And  whispers  to  the  vast  of  space 

Among  the  worlds,  that  all  is  well. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  479 


CXXV. 

And  all  is  well,  though  faith  ami  form 
Be  sundered  in  the  night  of  fear ; 
Well  roars  the  storm  to  those  that  hear 

A  deeper  voice  across  the  storm, 

Proclaiming  social  truth  shall  spread. 

And  justice,  e'en  though  thrice  again 
The  red  fool-fury  of  the  Seine 

Should  pile  her  barricades  with  dead. 

But  woe  to  him  that  wears  a  crown, 
And  him,  the  lazar,  in  his  rags  : 
They  tremble,  the  sustaining  crags ; 

The  spires  of  ice  are  toppled  down. 

And  molten  up,  and  roar  m  flood  ; 

The  fortress  crashes  from  on  high, 
The  brute  earth  lightens  to  the  sky. 

And  the  vast  JEon  sinks  in  bloc^d, 


480  IN    MEMORIAL. 

And  compassed  by  the  fires  of  Hell, 

While  thou,  dear  spirit,  happy  star, 
O'erlook'st  the  tumult  from  afar, 

And  smilest,  knowiiirr  ail  is  well. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  481 


CXXVI. 

The  love  that  rose  on  stronger  wings, 
Unpalsied  when  he  met  with  Death, 
Is  comrade  of  the  lesser  faith 

That  sees  the  course  of  human  things. 

No  doubt,  vast  eddies  in  the  flood 

Of  onward  time  shall  yet  be  made, 
And  throned  races  may  degrade ; 

Yet,  oh  ye  ministers  of  good, 


Wild  Hours  that  fly  with  Hope  and  Fear, 
If  all  your  office  had  to  do 
With  old  results  that  look  like  new, 

If  this  were  all  your  mission  here, 

To  draw,  to  sheathe  a  useless  sword. 
To  fool  the  crowd  with  glorious  lies. 
To  cleave  a  creed  in  sects  and  cries, 

To  change  the  bearing  of  a  word. 


182  IN    MEMORIAM. 

To  shift  an  arbitrary  power, 

To  cramp  the  student  at  his  desk, 
To  make  old  baseness  picturesque 

And  tuft  with  grass  a  feudal  tower ; 

Why  then  my  scorn  might  well  descend 
On  you  and  yours.     I  see  in  part 
That  all,  as  in  som«i  piece  of  art, 

Is  toil  cooperant  to  an  ei  d. 


IX    MEMOBIAM.  483 


CXXVII. 

Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire, 
So  far,  so  near,  in  woe  and  weal ; 
0,  loved  the  most  when  most  I  feel 

There  is  a  lower  and  a  higher ; 

Known  and  unknown,  human,  divine  ! 

Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and  eye, 
Dear  heavenly  friend  that  canst  not  die, 

Mine,  mine,  forever,  ever  mine  ! 

Strang-e  friend,  past,  present,  and  to  be, 
Loved  deeplier,  darklier  understood ; 
Behold  I  dream  a  dream  of  good 

And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 


484  IN    MEMORIAM. 


cxxvm. 

Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air ; 

I  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run  •, 
Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 

And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou,  then  ?     I  cannot  guess  ; 
But  though  I  seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee,  some  diffusive  power, 

1  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less  : 


My  love  involves  the  love  before ; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now ; 

Though  mixed  with  God  and  Nature  thou, 
1  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh  ; 

I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice : 
1  prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice ; 

I  shall  not  lose  thee,  though  I  die. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  485 


CXXIX. 

O  LIVING  will  that  shalt  endure 

When  all  that  seems  shall  suffer  shock, 

Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock, 
Flow  through  our  deeds  and  make  them  pure, 

That  we  may  lift  from  out  the  dust 
A  voice  as  unto  him  that  hears, 
A  cry  above  the  conquered  years 

To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trust 

With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control 

The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved, 

And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 


IN    MEMOBIAM.  487 


0  TRITE  and  tried,  so  well  and  long, 

Demand  not  thou  a  marriage  lay ; 

In  that  it  is  thy  marriage  day 
Is  music  more  than  any  song. 

Nor  have  I  felt  so  much  of  bliss 

Since  first  he  told  me  that  he  loved 
A  daughter  of  our  house ;  nor  proved 

Since  that  dark  day  a  day  like  this  ; 

Though  I  since  then  have  numbered  o'er 

Some  thrice  three  years  :  they  went  and  came, 
Remade  the  blood  and  changed  the  frame, 

And  yet  is  love  not  less,  but  more ; 

No  longer  caring  to  embalm 

In  dying  songs  a  dead  regret, 

But  like  a  statue  soliil-set, 
And  moulded  in  colossal  calm. 


488  IN    MEMORIAM. 

Regret  is  dead,  but  love  is  more 

Than  in  the  summers  that  are  flown, 
For  I  myself  with  these  have  grown 

To  something  greater  than  before  ; 

Which  makes  appear  the  songs  1  made 
As  echoes  out  of  weaker  times, 
As  half  but  idle  brawling  rhymes. 

The  sport  of  random  sun  and  shade. 

But  where  is  she,  the  bridal  flower, 

That  must  be  made  a  wife  ere  noon  ? 
She  enters,  glowing  with  the  moon 

Of  Eden  on  its  bridal  bower : 

On  me  she  bends  her  blissful  eyes 

And  then  on  thee ;  they  meet  thy  look, 
And  brighten  like  the  star  that  shook 

Betwixt  the  palms  of  paradise. 

O,  when  her  life  was  yet  in  bud, 
He  too  foretold  the  perfect  rose. 
For  thee  she  grew,  for  thee  she  grows 

Forever,  and  as  fair  as  good. 


IN    JIEMORIAM.  489 

And  thou  art  worthy ;  full  of  power ; 
As  gentle ;  liberal-minded,  great, 
Consistent ;  wearing  all  that  weight 

Or  learning  lightly  like  a  flower. 

But  now  set  out :  the  noon  is  near, 
And  I  must  give  away  the  bride ; 
She  fears  not,  or  with  thee  beside 

And  me  behind  her,  will  not  fear  : 

For  I  that  danced  her  on  my  knee, 

That  watched  her  on  her  nurse's  arm, 
That  shielded  all  her  life  from  harm, 

At  last  must  part  with  her  to  thee ; 

Now  waiting  to  be  made  a  wife. 

Her  feet,  my  darling,  on  the  dead ; 
Their  pensive  tablets  round  her  head, 

And  the  most  living  words  of  life 

Breathed  in  her  ear.     The  ring  is  on. 

The  "wilt  thou"  answered,  and  again 
The  "wilt  thou"  asked,  till  out  of  twain 

Her  sweet  "  I  will"  has  made  ve  one. 
VOL.  I.  32 


490  IN    MEMOKIAM. 

Now  sign  your  names,  which  shall  oe  read 
Mute  symbols  of  a  joyful  mom 
By  village  eyes  as  yet  unborn ; 

The  names  are  signed,  and  overhead 

Begins  the  clash  and  clang  that  tells 

The  joy  to  every  wandering  breeze ; 
The  blind  wall  rocks,  and  on  the  trees 

The  dead  leaf  trembles  to  the  bells. 

0  happy  hour !  and  happier  hours 

Await  them.     Many  a  merry  face 
Salutes  them,  —  maidens  of  the  place, 

That  pelt  us  in  the  porch  with  flowers. 

0  happy  hour  !  behold  the  bride 

With  him  to  whom  her  hand  I  gave. 
They  leave  the  porch,  they  pass  the  grave 

That  has  to-day  its  sunny  side. 

To-day  the  grave  is  bright  for  me. 

For  them  the  light  of  life  increased 
Who  stay  to  share  the  morning  feast, 

Wlio  rest  to-night  beside  the  sea. 


nf    MEMOKIAII.  491 

Let  all  my  genial  spirits  advance 

To  meet  and  greet  a  whiter  sun  ; 

My  drooping  memory  will  not  shun 
The  foaming  grape  of  eastern  France. 

it  circles  round,  and  fancy  plays, 

And  hearts  are  warmed  and  faces  bloom, 
As  drinking  health  to  bride  and  groom, 

We  wish  them  store  of  happy  days. 

Nor  count  me  all  to  blame  if  I 
Conjecture  of  a  stiller  guest. 
Perchance,  perchance,  among  the  rest, 

And,  though  in  silence,  wishing  joy. 

But  they  must  go ;  the  time  draws  on. 
And  those  white-favored  horses  wait ; 
They  rise,  but  linger,  it  is  late ; 

Farewell,  we  kiss,  and  they  are  gone. 

A  shade  falls  on  us  like  the  dark 

From  little  cloudlets  on  the  grass, 
But  sweeps  away  as  out  we  pass 

To  range  the  woods,  to  roam  the  park, 


492  IN    MEMORIAM. 

Discussing  how  their  courtship  grew, 
And  talk  of  others  that  are  wed, 
And  how  she  looked,  and  what  he  said, 

And  back  we  come  at  fall  of  dew. 

Again  the  feast,  the  speech,  the  glee, 

The  shade  of  passing  thought,  the  wealth 
Of  words  and  wit,  the  double  health. 

The  crowning  cup,  the  three  times  three. 

And  last  the  dance  ;  —  till  I  retire  : 

Dumb  is  that  tower  which  spake  so  loud, 
And  high  in  heaven  the  streaming  cloud, 

And  on  the  downs  a  rising  fire : 

And  rise,  oh  moon,  from  yonder  down, 
Till  over  down  and  over  dale 
All  night  the  shining  vapor  sail 

And  pass  the  silent-lighted  town. 

The  white-faced  halls,  the  glancing  rills, 
And  catch  at  every  mountain  head, 
And  o'er  the  friths  that  branch  and  spread 

Their  sleeping  silver  through  the  hills  ; 


IN  mejMORIam.  493 

And  touch  with  shade  the  bridal  doors, 
With  tender  gloom  the  roof,  the  wall, 
And  breaking  let  the  splendor  fall 

To  spangle  all  the  happy  shores 

By  which  they  rest,  and  ocean  sounds, 
And,  star  and  system  rolling  past, 
A  soul  shall  draw  from  out  the  vast 

And  strike  his  being  into  boimds, 

And,  moved  through  life  of  lower  phase, 
Result  in  man,  be  born  and  think, 
And  act  and  love,  a  closer  link 

Betwixt  us  and  the  crowning  race 

Of  those  that,  eye  to  eye,  snail  look 

On  knowledge ;  under  whose  command 
Is  Earth  and  Earth's,  and  in  their  hand 

Is  Nature  like  an  open  book ; 

No  longer  half-akin  to  brute. 

For  all  we  thought  and  loved  and  did, 
And  hoped,  and  suffered,  is  but  seed 

Of  what  in  them  is  flower  and  fruit ; 


494  IN    MEMORIAM. 

Whereof  the  man,  that  with  me  trod 
This  planet,  was  a  noble  type 
Ajjpearing  ere  the  times  were  ripe, 

That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  in  God, 

That  God,  which  ever  lives  and  loves, 
One  God,  one  law,  one  element, 
And  one  far-off  divine  event, 

To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 


THE    EXD. 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


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